


The One With the Proposal

by kim47



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Proposing shouldn't be this <i>difficult</i>.</p><p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10038.html?thread=52309814#t52309814">this</a> prompt at the kink meme: Remember that episode of Friends where Chandler is going to propose to Monica and how he pretends that he doesn't care about marriage so she'll be really surprised? How about a version of it with Sherlock and John with Sherlock being the one that wants to propose but pretends that he has no desire for it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Руку и сердце](https://archiveofourown.org/works/657609) by [Rimmaara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rimmaara/pseuds/Rimmaara)



> Haha, oh man, this fic. I started writing it last July, it was supposed to be cracky and short and a fun distraction from everything. I didn't finish it til December and it was over 20 000 words when it was done. Now I've finally got around to getting it beta'd and edited. 
> 
> Written before we even knew what the series two episodes were called, so obviously, not influenced at all by those episodes.
> 
> Thanks to the fantastic [grassle](grassle.liveournal.com) for the beta.
> 
>  **eta** : Translated into Russian [here.](http://ficbook.net/readfic/341285/1253733#com)

***

Marriage has never been a concept that Sherlock Holmes really understands.

Oh, he knows the technicalities of it. He knows, for instance, that in England and Wales, if a man desires to marry his step-sister, then they must both be over the age of twenty-one and the younger of the two cannot have lived in the same household as the older at any time up to the age of eighteen. Yes, Sherlock knows about minimum ages and the definition of 'sound mind' and the exact rights the Civil Partnership Act 2004 gave to same-sex couples.

The concept has just never held the slightest shred of personal relevance for him. Sherlock can objectively see the advantages of certain legal benefits; he can understand (and scoff at the fact) that it was considered a declaration of undying love and eternal devotion, but the minute he tries to apply those concepts to himself, he draws a blank.

***

This all changed on a pale autumn morning, exactly two weeks after Sherlock had been knocked out by a fleeing suspect and John, wonderful, crazy John, had put the man out cold, and once he had ascertained that Sherlock had sustained no lasting injuries, had gripped him by the lapels of his coat and pulled him into a kiss, right in front of half of Scotland Yard. A perfect kiss, no less, leaving Sherlock dizzier than the blow to the head had.

Now, here, two weeks later, it's six a.m. and John is asleep in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock has been watching him for the last twenty minutes, bending his massive intellect to try and figure out how to deal with this fierce possessiveness and almost overwhelming desire he feels for John. 

And it’s not just desire. He likes, _needs_ John with him on cases now. And more than that, Sherlock loves just being out in London with John. He likes it when they have dinner at Angelo's; he likes it when they find themselves lost in a maze of back alleys in south-east London; he likes it when they're near that little bakery on Lewisham street that John is physically incapable of walking past without buying one of those ridiculous sticky buns that he eats with a relish only previously known to five-year-old children.

The last two weeks have been a whirlwind of, well, sex mostly, and Sherlock's barely had a minute to catch his breath, let alone _think_. But now he is, now he's been thinking for twenty – twenty-two -- minutes and the situation remains unresolved.

He loves John. They haven't said the words yet; they haven't really talked about their shifted relationship at all really, but Sherlock knows how he feels. And he's reasonably certain that John loves him too. 

But John is a popular man. He's personable and friendly, always smoothing Sherlock's rough edges in public. It's something Sherlock loves, that John is so warm, so approachable, but that he has a hidden side, that he's adamant and almost no one but Sherlock sees it. Sherlock doesn't begrudge John his friendships (much), but he needs something, some unequivocal statement that John is _his_ and that any other parties of interest Need Not Apply. He knows that he's not going to change his mind about being with John; it's been two years that they've known each other, and Sherlock has known almost from the beginning that he's never going to meet anyone quite like John again. And more than that, he's been in love with the man for nearly a year, even if most of that was spent in resigned acceptance of John's non-reciprocation.

The fact that marriage takes so long to occur to him is testament to his heretofore complete disinterest in the institution. He's watching the fascinating way in which John's hair curls over his ear and the way he keeps snuffling in his sleep and edging closer and closer to Sherlock when the idea occurs to him. It all clicks into place and Sherlock smiles.

Perfect.

He rolls out of bed and picks up his phone, pulling on his pyjama bottoms as he does. John stirs slightly and makes a small noise of discontent which makes Sherlock's heart throb almost painfully, and he leans down to kiss John's head.

"Go back to sleep," he whispers.

John mumbles something which sounds like "" and is still again. Sherlock slips out of his bedroom and into the kitchen.

"Mycroft, I need you to arrange a special licence or notice of marriage or whatever it is that means John and I can enter into a civil partnership. Right now," Sherlock says without preamble when his brother answers the phone. 

Silence, followed by a weary sigh.

"Sherlock, you cannot ask John to marry you."

"Technically, it's a civil partnership --"

"Yes, Sherlock, I am aware of the distinction," Mycroft replies, his voice full of the patience he's built up reserves of specifically for talking to Sherlock. "However, you and Doctor Watson have been in a...relationship," the word dripping with equal parts disdain and amusement, "for two weeks. If you ask him to marry you now, he will not respond well. It will seem impulsive, not like it’s something you really --" 

"I know John a hell of a lot better than you do, Mycroft," Sherlock snaps in reply. This conversation is not going the way he'd planned it at all.

"Indeed. Still, you have given little thought to the subject of marriage before, Sherlock. John has many ingrained and heteronormative views on the subject --"

"Mycroft, his sister was married to a woman and he's spent the last two weeks having very enthusiastic sex with a man. I very much doubt John has heteronormative views on _anything_."

"As you say. I have no doubt, however, that on the occasions that John has considered marriage, he has always pictured a woman, two children, and a house in Blackheath. Not a man in his midthirties who does experiments on body parts in the kitchen and chases serial killers for a living."

"Perhaps, but John loves _me_ ; he will no doubt be extremely willing to marry me."

"Has he said that?"

"Has he -- What?" Sherlock stutters.

"Has John said that he loves you?"

Sherlock's silence clearly tells Mycroft everything he wants to know.

"Sherlock, you know I worry about you. I only have your best interests --"

"I swear on my skull, Mycroft, if you finish that sentence, you will regret it."

"Very well. But you know my feelings. And this is the wrong thing to do."

Loath as he is to admit it, Sherlock knows Mycroft is right. He's known since Mycroft voiced his first objection, but it has never been in Sherlock's nature to back down from an argument with his older brother. 

"Sherlock," Mycroft begins after a minute.

"Fine," Sherlock says. And he hangs up.

As he makes tea (milk, two sugars for John, black with lemon for himself) Sherlock ponders the situation. Marriage is clearly still the best solution to his problem. It is only a matter of timing. Very well. Sherlock will do some research on the subject, perhaps even ask someone for some advice. Not Mycroft, no; he'll never talk to Mycroft about this again. Molly? No, too awkward. Gregson? No. Gregson doesn't like Sherlock, and he seems a little _too_ fond of John.

This is clearly a problem that requires more thought than Sherlock had anticipated. Well, that's fine. Sherlock's always loved a challenge.

*

Sherlock is a patient person.

Not, perhaps, in the traditional sense. Once he knows what he wants, and how to get it, he is the most impatient man in the _world_ , as John can well testify. But if it's called for, Sherlock has almost infinite reserves of patience. There are some problems that cannot be rushed; the solution has to be teased and coaxed out; sometimes you have to wait a long time for the final clue, the last piece of the puzzle. If the problem is a worthy one, Sherlock is more than willing to devote all the time necessary to it.

*

Three days after his conversation with Mycroft, Sherlock decides that he really does need to talk to someone. He's looked at various websites full of dating and relationship advice, but they are all far too general for his needs, not to mention horribly trite. All he's gathered from them is that a marriage proposal should be a) romantic and b) a surprise, which, frankly is not all that helpful. The former he has worked out on his own, and he can't quite see the reason for the latter.

No, the Internet will not help him. What he needs is proper advice, from someone who has been in a long-term relationship, preferably actually married, who knows both him and John well.

It's not a long list of people.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing in my kitchen?"

Lestrade's voice is more weary than surprised. Sherlock has let himself into Lestrade's flat before for a variety of reasons, and Lestrade has long since given up on expecting him to stop. Sherlock sips his coffee and watches as Lestrade shakes off his coat and tosses it expertly onto the hook on the back of the door. 

"I need your help," Sherlock says, setting his mug down on the kitchen counter. He hates the way the words sound in his mouth. He's _Sherlock Holmes_ , for goodness' sake: he does not ask people for advice; people come to _him_ for that.

Lestrade drops his keys into a bowl on the coffee table and slumps onto his sofa.

"You finally did it, didn't you?" he groans. "You actually killed someone and now you're making me an accomplice. Was it Anderson? If so, I suppose I could help you with --"

"I did _not_ kill anyone!"

"Well thank God for small mercies," Lestrade mutters, leaning back and closing his eyes.

Sherlock makes his way around the kitchen counter and into the living room. He perches on the coffee table and studies Lestrade for a moment, taking apart the man's day from his clothes and the stains on his fingers and the ticket stub sticking out of his pocket. 

"Um," he begins ineloquently and stops. Lestrade raises his head and gives Sherlock a Look. 

"Wait, you're serious,” he says in disbelief. “You're asking me for help. _You_ are actually asking _me_ for help?" 

"Oh, shut up."

Lestrade does so, but he's smirking now. Sherlock sighs and decides embarrassment is a useless emotion right now.

"Very well, I'll get straight to the point. John and I have entered into a sexual relationship, and I need you to tell me how long I should wait before I ask him to marry me."

Lestrade stares at him, his mouth slightly open in surprise.

" _What_?"

"Honestly, Lestrade, can you not keep up with something as simple as this conversation? I said that John and I --"

"I _heard_ you," Lestrade says, rolling his eyes. "I was expressing my surprise; no, my complete and utter shock at what it is you said."

"Why is it so surprising?" Sherlock demands.

"Why? Sherlock, you just told me you want to get married. You! Surprise is a very reasonable response."

"Yes, well, can we return to the point, please? You've been married before; how long should I wait before I propose?"

Lestrade is leaning forwards now, elbows braced on his knees, watching Sherlock closely. 

"How long did you say you two have been together?"

"I didn't, but even you should be able to work it out. You were there for our first kiss, just over two weeks ago."

"That was your first kiss?" Lestrade sounds shocked.

"What?" Sherlock says defensively. 

"We all thought the two of you had been shagging for _months_!"

Sherlock glares at him. 

"We haven't been. We've only just started _shagging_ as you so crudely put it. Now will you answer my question?"

"What question?"

Sherlock throws his hands up in frustration. Clearly Lestrade's mind is not at its sharpest when he's just come home from work. _And his mind's not all that sharp to begin with_.

"How long should I wait before I ask John to marry me," Sherlock says through gritted teeth.

"But..." Lestrade is sounding surprised again. "If you've only been together a few weeks, how can you possibly already know you want to marry him?"

There are so many answers to this question, so many reasons Sherlock has for doing this that he hardly knows where to begin. He struggles to gather all the threads together, to tie all the reasons he wants John without limit or reserve into a neat strand.

"It's _John_ ," he says finally. 

Lestrade eyes are narrowed, studying Sherlock closely. After a moment, however, he nods.

"Well," he begins. "Two weeks is a bit soon --"

"I _know_ ," Sherlock snaps. "That's why I'm here!"

"Yes, yes, calm down," Lestrade says, rolling his eyes again. "I was going to say that you're going to need to be patient. I know that whatever it is between you and John is...special," Lestrade’s tone is carefully neutral, "but you need to be patient. To spring a proposal on someone early in a relationship, no matter how crazy you are about them, is not a good idea. For either of you. You both need time to adjust to the different dynamic. You need to get to the point where it feels normal and comfortable and, well, maybe a little bit boring."

Sherlock looks at him doubtfully, and Lestrade chuckles.

"I know your mind _rebels at stagnation_ , but that's not what I mean. I mean that you need to let the relationship settle before you go about shaking it up again. Marriage is a big deal, Sherlock, and if you propose too soon... Well, he might think you don't take it seriously. And it's something that _John_ takes seriously."

Sherlock knows this, of course, because he knows John. But there's something about the way Lestrade says it that makes Sherlock think he has inside information.

"How do you know that?" he asks, as politely as he can manage.

Lestrade shrugs.

"We're mates, good mates. We talk about these things sometimes. You know he was thinking about proposing to Sarah, yeah?"

Sherlock's brain is instantly ablaze with this new information, but he can't process it; his heart is pounding, and he can't breathe properly.

"What?" he manages to croak out through his suddenly-dry throat. John was going to propose to Sarah? He was going to _leave Sherlock_ and _marry Sarah_ and he hadn’t ever thought to mention it?

"Shit, you didn't know." Lestrade grimaces. "Yes, well, he was thinking about it. Not very seriously, mind you. He didn't have a ring or anything. But he talked about it a couple of times. They were together for nearly a year, Sherlock. It's a normal thing for him to have thought about."

"What --" Sherlock clears his throat. "What happened, then?"

"It just didn't work out for them. In fact, they broke up pretty soon after I had that conversation with him. It was an amicable split, you know that. These things just happen sometimes."

Sherlock wants to shake Lestrade because no, these things _don't_ just happen. He can't fathom things just "not working out" for him and John. What would that look like? Sherlock knows he's not going to stop wanting John; he’s well-acquainted enough with his own heart to know it. But is John just going to decide one day that he's done, _thanks Sherlock, it's been fun, but I'm bored with this now_?

Something of what he's thinking must show on his face, because Lestrade pats him on the arm.

"I don't think that's going to happen with you and him," he says. "In fact, I think you're part of the reason he and Sarah didn't work out. With him, you always come first. You always have.”

Sherlock feels slightly reassured, but there's still an uneasiness in his chest that he can't get rid of. So far, all this conversation has served to do is to make him want to get a ring on John's finger even more.

"What should I do?" he asks.

"You're not going to like it," Lestrade warns, making a face.

"Tell me."

"I think you should wait at least a year."

Lestrade was right; Sherlock doesn’t like this, not one bit.

"But --"

"Hear me out, Sherlock. Like I said before, you need to wait for your relationship to actually _be_ a relationship. You've only been together two weeks. Let me guess, all you've done in that time is kiss on the sofa like teenagers, have an unhealthy amount of sex in some pretty strange places, and since it's you two, chase a criminal or two?”

Sherlock nods, surprised at Lestrade's perception. 

"Exactly. You need to have a normal relationship first; boring sex, fights over stupid things, times when you drive each other crazy. I know the two of you aren't exactly normal, but marriage is hard work, Sherlock. And John's never been in a relationship with a man before. You're probably not exactly who he was expecting to end up with."

Sherlock winces. 

"That's exactly what Mycroft said."

“I’m sorry,” Lestrade sighs. “If it helps, I do think you and John are going to be together for a long time."

They sit there in silence for a while as Sherlock processes Lestrade's words. It's not _bad_ news, really. He just has to wait a little longer than he anticipated. John, with his smiles and his tea and his steady, steady hands is more than worth it.

Suddenly aching to see John again, Sherlock stands up abruptly. 

"Thank you," he says, thrusting out his hand to Lestrade.

Lestrade's eyes crinkle as he smiles and shakes Sherlock's hand.

"Do you know, I've never heard you say that so sincerely."

"Don't get used to it." 

"Don't think I ever could."

Sherlock turns to leave and hears Lestrade turn on the television behind him. He makes it to the door before --

“Sherlock?”

He turns.

“I’ll have my badge back, thanks.” Lestrade doesn’t even look away from the television.

Sherlock smirks, removes it from his pocket, and tosses it onto the coffee table.

“You’re getting better.”

***

They have their first proper fight two and a half months in. Sherlock doesn’t count the arguments they have at least once or twice a week over various body parts in the fridge and experiments on the kitchen counter as proper fights -- they’ve been having those since day one.

This time is different. They’ve been on a case for six days, a truly horrific one that has even Sherlock shaken up, though he won’t admit it out loud. By the time they get back to the flat, they’re both tired and hungry and starting to fray at the edges.

This time it starts quietly, the frustration evident in the set of John’s shoulders and the clench of his jaw. There’s blame on both sides; Sherlock is being deliberately obtuse, John is being wilfully abrasive. In the beginning it’s the same old story, _how can you be such an unfeeling bastard_ , but soon John is shouting that Sherlock always, always takes him for granted and Sherlock coolly informs him that he won’t discuss this when John is being so irrational.

It ends in harsh words in raised voices; Sherlock sneering and John leaving, _for God’s sake, Sherlock, can’t you think about someone else for once in your life?_

Once he’s calmed down enough to think, Sherlock spends the night panicking on the sofa. How has he managed to ruin this so quickly? It’s been less than three months and John has already left. How could he have avoided this? Maybe he shouldn’t have spoken, maybe he should have just let John shout at him, apologised for everything. Except no, he couldn’t have done that; John had been _wrong_ , he hadn’t understood, and Sherlock couldn’t just let that go. His manner, he supposes, could have been more placating, less scornful. But he had been angry and frustrated, and not entirely in control of himself.

Sherlock runs his fingers through his hair in frustration, because he can’t see any way in which this could have been avoided. He reaches for the packet of cigarettes he keeps hidden stuffed inside the sofa cushions, lights one, and takes a long drag.

Should he call John? No, wherever he is, John probably wouldn’t appreciate being woken up. He probably doesn’t want to talk to Sherlock. And even if John did, what would Sherlock say? What can he say to convince John to come back, when he can’t promise this won’t happen again? 

John has to come back at some point; all his things are here. And Sherlock knows, rationally, that John’s (probably) not going to move out. But what about their...relationship? It seems likely that John will prefer that things end, go back to how they used to be, since he seems so convinced Sherlock is incapable of _caring_. 

Sherlock makes a cup of tea that he doesn’t drink and smokes more cigarettes than he should and sometime around six a.m. he falls into a fitful sleep.

*

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock wakes slowly, the room gradually coming into focus. Judging from the sunlight coming through the windows, it must be around eleven in the morning. He sits up and rubs his neck, sore from the odd angle, and watches John hang up his coat on the back of the door and turn to face Sherlock.

_Slept on Bill’s sofa, his shoulder’s aching, but he won’t say anything about it. Didn’t sleep much, not more than three hours. Left Bill’s hours ago, he’s been walking around, nearby, too. Working up the nerve to come back? Deciding what to say? Not enough data._

John is watching him right back, his expression unreadable. Sherlock wonders what clues he’s drawing from Sherlock’s appearance.

“So,” Sherlock begins, his voice disgustingly hoarse.

“So,” John echoes, crossing to sit on the sofa. They’re perched on opposite ends, a good three feet between them. Sherlock can smell the coffee John had for breakfast ( _latte, two sugars, from that place on Northumberland St_.)

They sit in silence for a little while, the minutes stretching thin and awkward between them. 

“Well,” Sherlock says eventually, forcing the words out. “I suppose this is over now?”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out like a question, doesn’t mean for it to sound so pleading.

“Eh?” John says, turning to look at Sherlock properly. Sherlock stares at the coffee table and summons the effort to make his voice flat and bored.

“This,” he repeats, gesturing lazily between them. “I suppose it’s over now.”

John makes a strangled noise and Sherlock turns to look at him quickly; John is frowning, his lips set in a tight line. God, Sherlock’s somehow managed to do something _else_ wrong.

“What, one fight and you get to decide that it’s over?” John says, disbelievingly. “This is a relationship, Sherlock; you don’t get to make executive decisions!”

John is glaring properly at him now, his hands clenched in his lap. Sherlock’s heart leaps; he’s never been so glad to see John angry.

“You mean --” His voice falters, damn and blast it. “Not over, then?”

John stares at him. Sherlock can almost see the wheels turning, puzzling out what exactly Sherlock means. He sees the moment it clicks into place. John’s eyes soften and his lips quirk in a slight smile. 

“God, get over here, you madman,” John says affectionately.

He reaches out as Sherlock slides obediently across the sofa and wraps his right arm around Sherlock’s waist.

“We had a fight,” he says, in the tone of one explaining something to a cute but rather slow child. “People in relationships fight sometimes. Especially if they’re living together. It’s unavoidable. Doesn’t mean we’re breaking up.”

In his relief (and slight resentment at John’s tone), Sherlock can’t help the words that slip out:

“It doesn’t?”

John laughs and pulls Sherlock even closer, so he is entirely pressed against John’s right side, John’s hand resting on Sherlock’s hip.

“No,” he says. “Welcome to an adult relationship.”

Sherlock smacks him on the thigh for that and John giggles, reaching up to curl his hand around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. John moves to pull back after a moment, but Sherlock’s having none of that, now that they’re not breaking up and John is staying (forever.) He pulls John closer and licks into his mouth, snogging him thoroughly.

When they separate, John’s grinning.

“God, you taste disgusting,” he says amicably, pressing his lips briefly to Sherlock’s. “How many did you smoke last night?”

“Half a pack,” Sherlock confesses, wondering if John is going to be angry again. But John just laughs and stands up, pulling Sherlock up with him. 

“Come on, brush your teeth and get dressed. We’re going out to lunch.”

Sherlock sighs, relief washing over him as he follows John out the door. They survived their first fight. John’s not angry at him. He takes his notebook from his inner jacket pocket and quickly crosses an item off. Everything seems to be on track.

***

Sherlock’s known from the very beginning how he feels about John, but oddly enough, the actual words aren’t spoken until they’ve been together nearly five months.

It’s not a special occasion. Sherlock isn’t even sure what day of the week it is. He hasn’t had a case in a while -- John’s been working more, and Sherlock’s either been running experiments at home or at Barts or working on his website. Today John is home earlier than usual. Sherlock smiles as he listens to John making an almighty racket in the kitchen. He’s taken to cooking lately, trying to wean them off takeaway, but he seems incapable of cooking without a terrific amount of noise and mess.

After fifteen minutes, John announces it’s ready and Sherlock obediently makes his way over to the table. He’s learnt to pick his battles with John over how much he eats, and today is not a day for fighting. Besides, John cooks excellent ravioli.

They drink red wine and talk about nothing and the only thing Sherlock can think is how incredible it is that he’s not _bored_. He should be climbing the walls by now, and knows that in a few days he probably will be, but right now there honestly isn’t anything he can think of that he would rather be doing. The warm feeling in his chest seems suspiciously like contentment, and he can’t recall having ever felt it before.

“I love you,” he says, interrupting John mid-sentence. It seems like important information that John should have.

John looks at him, his gaze serious and thoughtful. A small smile plays at his lips.

“I know,” he says simply, and the conversation resumes.

*

That night in bed, John fucks him exquisitely slowly, waiting until Sherlock is absolutely gasping before he lets him finish. John’s always been a generous lover, something that’s never surprised Sherlock, but tonight he’s been more attentive than he’s ever been before.

Afterwards they lie sprawled out, limbs arranged in a vaguely overlapping fashion.

“I love you, too,” John says.

Sherlock rolls over to lie on his side, head propped up on his right arm. He stares at John, whose chest is rising and falling a little faster than usual as he gets his breath back. John’s hair is military short again; Sherlock can’t decide which cut he likes better. He thinks it looks better like this, thinks it matches John’s hidden hard edges, but he likes the way the longer hair feels around his fingers.

John’s dark blue eyes are open and he’s staring at the ceiling. His expression is contemplative, and Sherlock longs to know what he’s thinking about. But before he can ask, John looks over and smiles at him, and Sherlock can’t help but grin back.

He leans over and kisses the centre of John’s chest.

“I know,” he says.

John laughs and pulls Sherlock on top of him.

*

After that, it’s hard.

Sherlock has set himself a goal, one year, and he’s used to doing whatever it is he’s decided to do. But the more time passes, the less reason he can see to wait. Everything Lestrade mentioned, they’ve done. They’ve had fights, proper fights, and made up. They’ve had boring sex and driven each other crazy (not that they weren’t doing that before they were together). Sherlock can’t really remember what it was like to _not_ be in a relationship with John; it’s natural and easy, a steady backdrop for his, for their, life.

And it’s different now. It’s not about branding John as unequivocally _his_ anymore, if it ever really was. Anyone who sees them together immediately realises how things stand, and he trusts John implicitly, knows John would never be unfaithful. But...sometimes, when he’s frustrated and tense, when he’s inadvertently hurt John again, when he’s left strange things in the fridge _again_ , he wants to give John something. He knows John doesn’t doubt his love, but he also knows that John worries about holding Sherlock’s interest. Sherlock doesn’t know how to tell John that he’s never going to be bored with him, that that’s not what this is about at all. Sherlock isn’t good with words. _I love you_ doesn’t say everything he needs it to.

Sherlock wants to guarantee John everything that he can, especially given the ridiculous and dangerous life they lead.

And besides that, it’s eminently practical.

***

“Afternoon, Sherlock,” Lestrade says cheerfully, breezing through the door.

Sherlock is in his armchair, fondling his violin (as John says, always with an amused smile on his face), and he inclines his head in response. 

“John not around?”

“Obviously.”

“How are the two of you?”

Sherlock sighs. Ever since he went to Lestrade for advice about marrying John, Lestrade has taken a keen interest in their relationship. He asks about it constantly, and never seems put off by Sherlock constantly rebuffing him.

“Fine,” he says dismissively. Today he is even less willing to talk about John than usual. Frustration’s been gnawing at him for weeks, he’s so close to snapping, and he can’t guarantee what will happen if he does.

Lestrade looks as though he’s about to ask something more, but perhaps he sees something in the set of Sherlock’s shoulders, because he gives a little half shrug.

“I’ve got something for you. Two bodies found, Epping Forest. Will you come?”

Although...maybe he could talk to Lestrade again. He was reasonably helpful the first time. Maybe he’d have some advice and Sherlock would be able to _think_ again... Maybe if Sherlock puts his argument to Lestrade, he’ll concede that it would be perfectly acceptable for Sherlock to ask John to marry him right now, even though it’s only been nine months and a few days.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock replies, plucking a few strings. Should he ask him? 

“Sherlock!” 

Well, it can’t hurt.

“Can I ask him now?” He asks abruptly, decision made.

“Can you -- What?” Lestrade looks utterly nonplussed.

“Can I ask John to marry me now? Has it been long enough? I know you said a year, but it’s been nine months, and I honestly don’t know if I can wait any longer.”

There’s an edge of desperation to his voice, and he’s pressing his fingers against the strings of his violin hard enough to hurt.

“Christ, Sherlock, you’ll give me whiplash one of these days, the way your conversation changes direction,” Lestrade says. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, watching Sherlock closely, his face fixed in an expression that’s halfway between fond amusement and exasperation.

Sherlock waits a moment before prodding again.

“Well?” he demands.

Lestrade shrugs.

“I think you should ask him.”

“But we’ve been together for a while, and it’s clear to both of us, I think, that --” Sherlock breaks off as Lestrade’s words register. “Wait, what?”

Lestrade snorts and takes a step forwards, crossing his arms across his chest. His expression is definitely amused now.

“You heard me. Ask him. I honestly can’t believe you’ve waited this long. I’m impressed.”

Sherlock gapes at him.

“But you told me to!” he says accusingly.

“I said about a year, Sherlock, didn’t have to be exactly one. Jesus, I should’ve known you would take it literally. You probably have a list in your head of all the things I mentioned, don’t you? And you mentally crossed them off?”

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Over the years, Lestrade has become uncomfortably good at reading him.

“I just wanted you to slow down and think about it and wait a while. I think John’s ready; God, he talks about you non-stop. He doesn’t want anything except you,” Lestrade says. “Nutter,” he adds a moment later.

Relief flooding through him, Sherlock cannot muster up the ire to give Lestrade more than a perfunctory glare. This is excellent. He’ll ask John tomorrow night. They’ll go out to dinner -- somewhere nice, where Sherlock will actually have to pay the bill, not one of the handful of places they go regularly where the proprietor is more than happy to entertain Sherlock and his date for free -- and Sherlock will tell John...well, something. He’ll work out the details later.

And Sherlock will be able to function beyond this crippling frustration and John will stop doubting that Sherlock wants anything except him.

It takes a while, but he eventually becomes aware that Lestrade is speaking to him.

“What?” he asks impatiently. 

“Have you got a plan?” Lestrade asks. He looks almost childishly excited, and Sherlock rolls his eyes, even though the same excitement is thrumming in his own chest. He feels energised and powerful, like he could run the length of London.

“Of course I have a plan. I always have a plan,” he says dismissively.

Lestrade looks doubtful, which is distinctly unfair, given that Sherlock’s plans have never failed him before.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Well,” Lestrade begins hesitantly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not exactly...romantic.”

Sherlock snorts.

“I know, I know,” Lestrade says, holding his hands up defensively. “But a proposal should be, at least to some degree. I’m not suggesting you...I don’t know, write him a poem and put a ring in his glass of champagne or anything.” 

Lestrade catches sight of Sherlock’s horrified look and laughs. “ _Not_ suggesting, I said. Just...” he hesitates. “Be honest with him, as much as you can.”

“How is that romantic?” 

The look Lestrade gives him is so pointed Sherlock almost flinches. 

“Sherlock, I know you’re rubbish with, well, words and basic human interaction --”

“Hey!”

“-- but it’s painfully obvious to _everyone_ how you feel about him. I mean it, the new DC on my team even commented on it, after you ripped him to shreds over his suggestion that the murder I called you in on two weeks ago was actually suicide. He said he didn’t understand how someone could take him apart so thoroughly and then look at John like you want to wrap him in tissue paper and put him in a glass case.”

Sherlock stares. Lestrade coughs uncomfortably.

“Yes, he’s a bit of a strange one. Poetic, though. And, look,” he says, returning to the point, “I know he probably already knows, but sometimes it’s nice to hear things out loud, to be surprised by someone. Okay?”

Sherlock watches him for a moment before nodding slightly.

“Good,” Lestrade says briskly. “Now will you come with me?”

Sherlock stares at him blankly.

“Come with you where?”

“Christ, you really need to just get on with it and marry him. I’ve never seen you this distracted before.”

***


	2. Chapter 2

“-- make sense. It just doesn’t.”

“But why? Why does any of that _matter_? It’s not necessary for me for the work, why else would I bother retaining rubbish like that?”

John is rubbing his forehead, half in concentration, half in frustration.

“I’m not saying that you should remember _everything_. Obviously a lot of the stuff out there is rubbish, right, and not important. I’m not asking you to read Hello and watch reality TV or anything --”

John is interrupted by the maitre d’ arriving to show them to their table. Sherlock follows him through the restaurant, a reasonably fancy French place, a little more romantic than their regular haunts. He’d selected it carefully from a shortlist (e-mailed to him by Mycroft; he’d pointedly not replied to it): he needed somewhere romantic without being over-the-top, not something that would arouse John’s suspicions.

Once they are seated (on adjacent sides of the table, John almost always insists on it -- he doesn’t like sitting opposite, and Sherlock’s learned not to ask), John resumes the conversation.

“But there are some things that you choose to ignore, Sherlock, or know nothing about, that are _important_.”

“Such as?”

“Okay, take literature for example. I still can’t believe you can’t name a single Shakespeare play or Jane Austen novel.”

“It’s never been necessary for me to know either. I studied them, I’m sure, at some point in my education. But I’ve told you so many times John, it’s not _relevant_ , so I don’t have time for it. I deleted it.”

“But, and this is my point, how on earth can you judge what’s relevant and what’s not? You come across so many bizarre cases, in fact you go _looking_ for the bizarre cases, how do you know the next serial killer isn’t going to select his victims based on, oh I don’t know, their first names being those of Shakespearean heroines?”

“That is statistically extremely unlikely, John.”

John makes a small noise of frustration, and Sherlock has to fight down a smile. He likes these conversations more than he’ll ever admit. He enjoys arguing with John -- not the kind of arguing where John is shouting at him for putting empty milk cartons back in the fridge, or when he’s berating John for being unbearably slow -- but the _real_ arguments, constructing proofs and defences, attempting to persuade the other to their own point of view. They rarely succeed, but that is never the point.

John’s debating skills have improved over the years. In the early days of their acquaintance, he would mostly stare incredulously at Sherlock, unable to believe that Sherlock actually thought certain things. (Sherlock still remembers vividly the conversation about the solar system; he had not considered John’s response , _but it’s the solar system!_ , to be a particularly impressive argument.) There had been a lot of expressions of amazement and waving of hands. But John is not really surprised by the things Sherlock says anymore, and just like he’s learnt to observe (not as well as Sherlock, but far better than average), he’s learnt how to argue with Sherlock. He’s learnt to be patient and how to give lucid, systematic assertions. He’s learnt the art of the quick riposte and the calm defence. He still gets frustrated sometimes, and it’s often more than justified because Sherlock is deliberately winding him up, just to see him react.

It’s intellectual foreplay, and Sherlock likes it nearly as much as the actual sex.

John is shaking his head, his forehead wrinkling.

“That’s not the point I was making, and you know it.” 

“What did you mean, then?” 

“I meant that it’s not possible for you to know in advance what information you’re going to need to know for a case. You’ve taught yourself chemistry and anatomy and you’ve learnt every street and alleyway in London. You understand blood splatters and guns, weather patterns, traffic patterns. You can look at the mud on my shoes and tell me exactly which route I took to get home.” John pauses, clearly arranging his next thought. 

“It seems to me that at least a basic understanding of literature and philosophy, for example, could be extremely useful to you. I’m not saying your knowledge on the subject needs to be encyclopaedic, but a bare minimum of what every school leaver knows, for example.”

Ah, yes. His John is brilliant.

“But why? I can respect expertise --”

A waiter arrives, halting Sherlock mid-sentence, handing them their menus and hovering politely. Sherlock orders the wine -- _Taittinger Nocturne Sec_ , John’s favourite and _far_ more expensive than they would normally get, and dismisses the waiter peremptorily. John raises his eyebrows but says nothing. Sherlock ignores the look and tries to pick up the threads of their conversation.

“Yes, as I was saying, I respect expertise. If I don’t have the requisite knowledge on a subject, I am more than willing to consult a specialist. You remember we worked with Dr Carter last year, the forensic anthropologist? What’s to stop me calling in an expert on fifteenth century theatre or late eighteenth century philosophy if I need one?”

John frowns. He’s been idly paying with his napkin, folding and unfolding it, but his hands still. Sherlock resists the urge to lean across the table and touch them. And then John smiles, a wide, cheeky grin.

“That was your version of respecting expertise? You said you couldn’t believe he’d got into university, let alone got his doctorate, Sherlock.”

“I was more than willing to bow to his better knowledge in _his_ field,” Sherlock sniffs, “but the moment he stepped into _mine_ , I couldn’t put up with such dim-witted nonsense. And you’re avoiding the question.”

Sherlock leans forwards, elbows on the table, hands pressed together. He watches John eagerly, waiting for his response.

“Alright then, here’s my point,” John begins. He’s looking straight at Sherlock, his eyes sparkling. “You had enough knowledge of anatomy, the criminal history of London, and knife wounds to spot the connection between the three bodies and the 1938 Stockwell Strangler. Based on that, you got Lestrade to call in Dr Carter.”

Sherlock nods and motions for John to go on.

“To continue the example from before, suppose the serial killer you --”

“We,” interrupts Sherlock, and he can see John stifle a smile.

“-- the serial killer _we_ were after was choosing victims who had the same names as Shakespearean heroines. Beatrice, Juliet, Cordelia, and so on. If you had a basic knowledge of the works of Shakespeare, you would be able to spot a pattern in the selection of victims. You might not know enough to be able to _predict_ the next victim, but for that you could call in the expert.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, stymied. It’s a deliciously paradoxical feeling; he hates losing an argument, but he loves seeing John _think_ like this. 

“Alright, I am willing to concede your point, to a certain extent,” he says eventually. “Although, may I say, such a situation has never come up before. I’ve been doing this for nearly eight years and I’ve never had reason to rue my knowledge of elementary philosophy or current politics --”

“-- oh, don’t even get me started on politics. I can’t believe you think it’s not relevant at all, especially given that case you had last --” 

“-- however, I always have you with me. In the entirely unlikely event that we are pursuing a killer with a bizarre predilection for killing off the real-life counterparts of fictional characters, I can count on you to fill in the gaps in my knowledge.”

John looks pleased, his lips curving into a delightful half smile, but he shakes his head.

“My mind doesn’t work like yours, Sherlock, as you’re so often at pains to point out to me. You can’t assume I’ll make the connections, that I’ll see the relevance of something, just because I know more about, oh, popular culture or politics or anything, really.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the way your mind works,” Sherlock says, and he means it. There’s something about the way John thinks that resonates with Sherlock -- John has an incredible knack for saying just the right thing to get Sherlock’s mind to click into place. Sherlock has never stopped marvelling at it, but almost fears thinking about it too deeply, as if probing at something so serendipitous may cause it to vanish like smoke.

John grins properly now, ducking his head slightly before licking his lips and raising his eyes to Sherlock’s again. 

“You’re just trying to flatter me into agreeing with you, aren’t you?” he teases. He leans closer to Sherlock so their forearms are touching on the table.

Sherlock is suddenly nervous, all his plans for the evening rushing back to him. He’d more or less forgotten them in his enjoyment of their conversation, but now it’s all he can think about, and he wills himself to be calm.

He’s prepared what he’s going to say before, at least in essence. He doesn’t want it to come out stiff and scripted, so he forced himself not to rehearse it endlessly beforehand, as is his natural inclination. It is supposed to be romantic, but he’s not sure how well he’s succeeded on that front. He had vaguely considered running it by Lestrade, but decided that no, he was an adult, not to mention a genius, and he could bloody well figure this out on his own. 

_John, we’ve been together for nine and a half months now, and while that may not seem like a very long time for an ordinary couple, there has never been anything ordinary about..._

Just as he opens his mouth to speak, the waiter arrives with their bottle of wine and stands by to take their order. Sherlock sighs, half in relief and half in frustration, and picks up the menu. There is no way he’s going to able to eat, this is worse than being on a case, but John will lecture him if he doesn’t at least pretend and he does not want to have that particular discussion tonight.

Sherlock can’t resist showing off a little, placing the order in flawless French, _cuisse de canard confit, coeur de salade frisee et pommes sautees au thym_ for John (Sherlock can’t stand duck, but he knows John loves it), and _la dorade grillée façon bouillabaisse et legumes niçois confits_ for himself (although he suspects the bouillabaisse won’t be a patch on his grandmother’s.)

The waiter only raises an eyebrow, jotting the order down swiftly before whisking their menus away. Sherlock glances around, trying to force his slightly trembling hands to be still. This is ridiculous; he knows what he needs to say, he knows how he feels, and he knows how _John_ feels. He’s 98.7% sure John is going to say yes, and if he says no there’s going to be a damn good reason. There is no logic to his nervousness.

Yet, as with so many things to do with John, logic appears to have buggered right off.

“John,” he begins, leaning closer, and John moves his hand forwards a little and runs his index finger over the bones of Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock takes a deep, shaky breath and continues. “I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you to when I say that I am quite horribly in love with you.”

John looks startled, then he laughs and leans closer to Sherlock, one other hand sliding onto Sherlock’s leg.

“Trust me, Sherlock, it’s a constant surprise. I don’t even object to the word horrible.”

“It is horrible,” Sherlock mutters. “You’re...necessary to me. I used to be independent. You took that away.”

Realising what he’s said, and that it’s surely not a good idea to tell the person you’re trying to propose to that being in love with them is _inconvenient_ , Sherlock starts to backpedal furiously.

“That’s not to say that I don’t, uh, like having you around. I do, you know I do. I love having you around. You make tea and don’t get angry about things that don’t matter and you’re handy with a gun and you always stitch me up when...”

Sherlock trails off, realising that he’s falling into another trap.

“Not that I only like you because you’re useful, I don’t mean that, I just --”

He’s silenced by John’s lips pressed against his, John’s hand moving from his wrist to the back of his neck. He kisses John back gratefully, thankful to have his ungainly stream of words halted.

“I love you,” he says again, their lips barely separated. The words are solid, familiar ground: there’s no way for him to bungle them. He keeps his eyes shut, willing himself to just spit it out. “And I think it makes sense for us to, that is, I would be happy if --”

“Oh God, Sarah.”

There’s a beat of perfect silence in Sherlock’s mind.

_What?_

It’s like having a bucket of ice water poured over him, the instant, paralysing cold. No, no, that doesn’t make sense, why would John say that? Why is he speaking his ex-girlfriend’s name against Sherlock’s mouth while Sherlock is trying to _propose_ to him?

“W-what?” he manages.

John has pulled back a little way, and his eyes are trained over Sherlock’s left shoulder, on the restaurant entrance.

“It’s Sarah,” he mutters, nodding in that direction. “With a date.”

Sherlock turns to look. Relief floods over him at the sight of Sarah’s still-familiar figure, chased down swiftly by anger. 

Sarah spots them quickly and smiles, making her way over to them. She’s followed by her date; a tall, slender man, with dark eyes and a striking jaw.

“Oh God, she’s coming over,” John says, looking vaguely panicked. Sherlock isn’t sure if the reaction springs from a natural aversion to the potential awkwardness of the situation or from something a little more...complicated. He’s certain John loves him and is happy with him, but that doesn’t necessarily preclude the possibility of him having some lingering feelings for Sarah, does it?

John slips his left hand into Sherlock’s right and squeezes briefly, as if he has heard Sherlock’s thoughts, and gave him a small smile, before standing to greet Sarah and her date.

“John, Sherlock, it’s lovely to see you both,” Sarah says. Her smile is wide and genuine, and she extends a hand to Sherlock, who shakes it as briefly as he can.

“And you,” John replies warmly, kissing her on the cheek. 

“Are you two having dinner, then?” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but John answers politely in the affirmative. He’s not being overly effusive, but then John never is. He’s certainly being friendly, though. Sherlock stands there morosely while John and Sarah make the usual pleasant small talk. 

“God, how rude of me, sorry, this is Mark,” Sarah says at the first lull in conversation. She reaches back to touch the arm of the man who’s been standing patiently behind her. 

“Mark, this is Doctor John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes,” she says, gesturing to them in turn. Sherlock wonders if she knows he and John are together. Well, obviously, but _together_ together. He can’t think who would have told her, but given their physical proximity, and the rather romantic atmosphere of the restaurant, she ought to have been able to connect the dots.

“Lovely to meet you,” Mark says pleasantly, shaking John, then Sherlock, by the hand. He has a powerful grip, for such a slender man. Sherlock can’t help himself.

“You’re a doctor, paediatrics, judging by your shirt cuffs. Your suit and watch say you’re highly paid, so I’d say a paediatric surgeon, your handshake backs that up. You’ve recently lost a lot of weight, you took up running and...tennis, judging by the way you’re massaging your right shoulder. You did it because your wife left you, not recently, but not long enough for the tan line from your ring to have faded completely. Let’s see, she left you for --”

“Sherlock,” John says quietly but firmly. It hurts a little, that John still thinks he has to stop Sherlock from embarrassing people, from embarrassing _him_. It feels like they’re back where they were years ago.

Mark stares at him for a second before his eyes crinkle and he laughs.

“That’s absolutely amazing. Right on all counts. I’d heard all about you, of course, but Sarah will tell you that I didn’t believe half of what she said.”

“You talked about me?” Sherlock asks Sarah, bemused. He’d always got the impression that she didn’t really like him. He remembers what Lestrade had said _you always come first with him_ and can’t help but feel a little smug.

“Of course I did,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “Over the period of our acquaintance, I was kidnapped three times and spent a total of sixteen days in hospital, although admittedly most of that was in the waiting room.” Her eyes flick to John as she says this, who looks absurdly guilty, as if every time John has landed in hospital it hasn’t been entirely Sherlock’s fault.

There’s a little awkward pause, broken by a waiter arriving to show Sarah and Mark to their table. Sherlock is immensely relieved at the sight of him -- hopefully his evening can get back on track now.

“-- or,” the waiter continues, “this table is free.” He indicates the table adjacent to Sherlock and John’s. “If you would like to join your friends.”

Sherlock stares at the idiot man in horror. John smiles and looks at Sarah, who smiles back, and they say simultaneously,

“That would be lovely.”

Dinner is torturous.

Sherlock is not given to spending time, socially at least, with people other than John. He does not like it. He does not enjoy the inevitable chatter about politics, films and sport that dinner conversations always involve in varying permutations. He does not enjoy having to be polite to people he doesn’t like. Indeed, if John weren’t sitting there calmly, his hand on Sherlock’s knee, Sherlock would have more than a few pointed remarks to make about their dinner partners.

As it is, he says very little at all, leaving John and Sarah to carry the conversation. Mark appears to be a friendly man, and more than willing to join in the lively conversations. Sherlock is by turns irritated, bored and frustrated. He knows John can tell how he’s feeling; he keeps glancing over at Sherlock and rubbing soothing circles on his leg. The only reason they’re still here is John’s damnable politeness.

And apart from all that, there’s a raging sense of possessiveness washing over him, and the longer dinner goes, the stronger it gets. He’s fighting down the urge to drag John close and snog him thoroughly, just so Sarah can see. It _should_ be clear, it should be blindingly obvious that he and John are here on a date, but he can’t be sure and he wants there to be no ambiguity. Sarah and Mark are clearly on either their fourth or fifth date, and have not had sex yet -- it’s by no means a serious relationship, not yet at least. Sarah needs to know _right now_ that John is Sherlock’s, and that Sherlock has no intention of ever giving him up.

By the time dessert arrives, Sherlock’s head is spinning. He’s taken to observing their fellow diners to try and distract himself, but there are too many people, too much _data_ , and everything is too noisy, too bright, and he’s had three glasses of champagne and been at war with himself for nearly two hours and any minute now someone’s going to say something and he’s going to snap and do something that John will not find acceptable and then this evening, which is already ruined beyond repair, is going to turn into a fiasco of an entirely different sort and --

John’s hand settles over his lightly, and Sherlock jerks out of his own head. John’s not even looking at him; he’s carrying on the conversation as he strokes Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s mood lifts almost instantly; he’d still rather not be here, but it no longer seems unbearable.

At the next pause in the conversation, John looks over at him. 

“Home?” he mouths, half smiling. Sherlock nods gratefully.

“Well, we’re going to take off,” John says, pushing aside his half-eaten crème brulée and signalling the waiter. “It’s been lovely to catch up with you, Sarah.”

Sarah is watching them with an unfathomable expression, but she nods.

“And you, John. I’m glad you’ve been well. That the two of you,” she adds pointedly, “have been well.”

John smiles, catching her meaning, and nods. She scribbles something on a napkin and hands it out to John. 

“New number,” she explains. “Call me sometime. It’d be great to catch up properly. Or if you just want to chat, or anything.”

“Will do,” John replies, and slips it into his pocket. Sherlock keeps his expression neutral, even though he’d like nothing better than to grab the napkin from John’s pocket and rip it into pieces. 

Sherlock settles the bill, John kisses Sarah on the cheek again, shakes Mark’s hand, and wishes them goodnight. Sherlock nods to both of them, and then they’re gone.

*

In the cab on the way home, Sherlock is too tired to do anything except slump against John. 

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“Before...before Sarah arrived, it seemed like you were about to say something.”

Sherlock turns his face farther into John’s neck, his nose against John’s collar bone. He doesn’t say anything.

John puts his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, and they don’t speak the rest of the way home.

*

Sherlock’s belief that the night could not get any worse is disproved when he and John arrive home.

He’s half slumped over John, his arm slung around John’s neck, and leaning heavily into him, trying to touch as much of John’s body as he can while still remaining upright. It’s still a surprising thing to him, the inexplicable _need_ for physical contact and the comfort it brings. They stumble into the sitting room awkwardly, John laughing at Sherlock’s clingy ungainliness.

This sight of Mycroft seated calmly in John’s chair reading the paper arrests them, and John’s giggles die away. Sherlock, whose head is already aching, scowls fiercely at his older brother as he folds up his newspaper and stands.

John reacts first, disentangling himself from Sherlock and stepping forwards to shake Mycroft’s hand.

“Evening,” John says, his voice admirably neutral. 

Mycroft is smiling slightly and Sherlock can suddenly see what he’s thinking, knows why he’s here. But he’s had a bit too much wine and far too much emotional turmoil for one evening and he can’t seem to coordinate his brain and his mouth.

“Ah, Sherlock, John,” Mycroft begins smoothly, shaking John’s hand and glancing between the two of them. “I believe congratulations are in --”

Sherlock shakes his head frantically, though he still can’t get his tongue to work, and widens his eyes meaningfully. It’s unfathomable to him that Mycroft could make a blunder like this, that he could have failed to deduce the facts of their evening out. 

Mycroft stops mid-sentence. The silence is ringing and awkward, and oh, Sherlock is going to _murder_ him...

“Congratulations?” John asks, confused, glancing back at Sherlock, clearly hoping for enlightenment. 

“Ah,” says Mycroft. Sherlock has never seen him at a loss for words, and wishes he were in a position to properly appreciate the moment. He memorises Mycroft’s expression and tone and files them away to be perused later, when he’s not feeling the compulsion to seize his brother by his stupid umbrella-print tie and throttle him.

John is still looking perplexed, but Sherlock isn’t counting on him not catching on to the meaning behind Mycroft’s half-uttered congratulations. He steps forwards and grasps John by the elbow.

“John, could you excuse us? I have a few...words to say to my dear brother,” he says, still glaring at Mycroft.

John shoots him a swift, sharp look, but he nods. Then, glancing at Mycroft, he very deliberately reaches up and pulls Sherlock into a slow kiss.

“Come to bed soon, yes?” he says softly. Sherlock, his eyes remaining closed, nods. With a parting glance at Mycroft and a gentle squeeze of Sherlock’s arm, John leaves for their bedroom.

Sherlock and Mycroft stare at each other in silence until the bedroom door clicks.

“Mycroft, how could you possibly be so moronic?” Sherlock hisses. Mycroft looks a little uncomfortable for a moment, but the expression, clearly not comfortable on his face, is soon replaced with his usual calm indifference.

“Really, Sherlock --”

“You’ve ruined _everything_.” 

Sherlock stalks over to his armchair and throws himself into it, drawing his legs up and wrapping his arms around them, still in his coat. He fixes Mycroft with the dirtiest look he can muster.

Mycroft sighs, his pained, long-suffering, older-brotherly sigh, and seats himself in John’s chair again.

“Putting aside your gross overreaction for a moment,” he says, looking at Sherlock sternly, “I have done no such thing.”

“Yes, you have,” Sherlock says petulantly.

“Of course I haven’t. John hasn’t any idea what my words meant. How could he have? You’re being childish and, I’m sorry to say, Sherlock, rather slow-witted.”

“I’m _not_ , Mycroft. If this evening hadn’t already gone quite spectacularly badly, I may be more inclined to be gracious --” Mycroft snorts in disbelief “-- but as it is, your idiocy is inexcusable.”

“What _happened_ this evening, for heaven’s sake?”

Sherlock sighs and slumps farther down in his seat.

“I didn’t ask him to marry me.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“It’s not that difficult, Sherlock, I’d have thought a man of your intellect would have been able to manage it. You simply say ‘John, will you --’”

“I know,” Sherlock snaps, then glances worriedly through the kitchen to the hallway. It would not do for John to over hear this conversation.

“Sarah was there,” he says quietly, not looking at his brother.

Mycroft is silent for a moment, then --

“Oh, _Sherlock_.”

“Yes, thank you, Mycroft. Your sentiments are, as always, thoroughly unappreciated.”

Sherlock can feel Mycroft’s eyes on him and he continues to avoid them, tugging at a loose thread in the upholstery. He’d much rather not be having this conversation, not be spelling out his own failure to Mycroft. He could be in bed, asleep, curled around his still-not-fiancé.

“I still don’t see how what I’ve said this evening ‘ruins everything,’” Mycroft says after a moment, his tone hatefully soft and sympathetic. “If you didn’t actually manage to propose --”

“I started to. I’d started to tell him, to ask him, when Sarah arrived. He knows something’s going on. He’s not stupid,” he spits out.

His head is throbbing.

“I never claimed he was,” Mycroft says calmly. “I simply do not think that he will make the leap from --”

The front door is opened enthusiastically, and a beaming Lestrade strides into the room, brandishing a bottle of champagne.

“Where’s the happy couple? Mrs Hudson assured me it was perfectly safe to venture up,” Lestrade is saying, but Sherlock is staring at him in amazement. This cannot possibly be happening.

Lestrade’s expression falters when he stops and takes in the tableau before him. 

Sherlock closes his eyes, hoping against hope that when he reopens them he’ll be alone in the room, having dreamt this entire evening.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asks tentatively.

Sighing, Sherlock squints at him.

“How did you know?” he asks simply.

Lestrade shrugs.

“It was no great leap. You called me last weekend asking if I agreed Pierre Victoire was a romantic location, and what I thought about the wine list. I know you and John nearly always go out to dinner on a Friday when there isn’t a case on, and that you wouldn’t want to do anything too out of the ordinary.”

Sherlock blinks at him. Oh God, now Lestrade is _deducing_ things. The sensation of having fallen down the rabbit hole increases sharply.

“Oh God,” he mutters. “Lestrade, you have to leave. Now.”

“But...what happened?”

Lestrade looks perplexed, and the familiar expression is soothing to Sherlock.

“Another time. You have to leave before John --”

The bedroom door swings open and John shuffles out into the hallway and through the kitchen. He’s dressed in pyjama bottoms and a soft T-shirt, his hair ruffled and his expression sleepy. He can’t have been asleep yet, although he doesn’t look far from it at all.

“Sherlock? I though I heard Lestrade’s voice, could’ve sworn he said something about a happy couple --”

John stops dead as he reaches the living room and stares at the three men -- Sherlock hunched over in his chair, Lestrade standing in the middle of the room, clutching a bottle of champagne, Mycroft watching the scene impassively. 

John crosses his arms.

“What’s going on.”

The three men stare at him silently, and Sherlock’s mind is reeling, flailing desperately, searching for something to say to fix this situation.

“Mycroft,” he blurts out.

John frowns at him, his eyes flicking to Mycroft, who’s now looking at Sherlock warily.

Sherlock ignores his brother’s expression and continues, in a calmer tone.

“Lestrade was just here to pick up Mycroft. They’re going...somewhere. I don’t know, it’s not important, I deleted it.” He tries to shrug indifferently, but isn’t sure he hits the mark. 

John looks shocked at first, then extremely sceptical.

“Lestrade and Mycroft? On a...date?” He sounds unconvinced, and given that Lestrade is gaping at Sherlock and Mycroft is frowning, Sherlock cannot blame him. Then, miraculously, Lestrade turns to John.

“Something like that,” he says sheepishly and John’s eyes widen in surprise. “Shall we, Mycroft?” Lestrade adds, taking a hesitant step towards Mycroft’s chair.

Mycroft gives Sherlock a look that means Sherlock is going to _pay_ for this somehow, most likely in services rendered, before he smoothes his expression into a look Sherlock has never seen on his brother’s before. He looks pleased, and a little tentative, his face much, much softer than usual.

“Certainly, Gregory,” he says, his voice pitched slightly lower than usual. Lestrade’s eyes flicker in surprise, and then he grins at Lestrade. It only looks eighty percent forced, which worries Sherlock a little. John is watching the two of them with his mouth slightly open.

“I shall call you tomorrow,” Mycroft says over his shoulder as he leaves the room behind Lestrade, his hand actually resting on the small of Lestrade’s back. Sherlock cannot believe that actually worked, and is seriously concerned about the implications of what it might mean.

When the door of the flat closes, John turns to Sherlock, his expression so utterly bemused that Sherlock can’t help but smile. He stands and removes his coat, crossing to hang it up.

“Lestrade and...and _Mycroft_?” John asks, and Sherlock thoroughly approves of the slightly horrified incredulity of his tone.

“Trust me John, I do _not_ want to talk about it,” he assures him, turning to face John. 

“B-but...”

“Nope. You don’t want to know.”

John standing there, on the threshold between kitchen and sitting room, looking soft and sleepy, confused but also slightly amused, is almost more than Sherlock’s exhausted state can take. He walks over to John and pulls him into a hug, resting his head on John’s shoulder. 

They stand there for a few minutes, until Sherlock starts to feel sleepy, as well as tired, at which point John pulls away and starts shoving him towards the bedroom. 

Sherlock collapses onto the bed the moment he enters the room, and John only huffs in disapproval before he sits on the bed next to Sherlock’s legs and tugs off his shoes and socks. He rearranges Sherlock’s limbs until he can tug and jiggle the rest of his clothing off until Sherlock is sprawled on the bed in only his underwear. Sherlock feels lazily content, just for a moment, to have John doing this for him.

“I’m not putting your pyjamas on you, you lazy prat,” John informs him, prodding Sherlock in the side. “So get under the covers before you freeze.”

Sherlock, his mind now working at one quarter speed, contemplates how nice it would be to have John do this for him all the time. Every day. Forever. 

John slides into bed behind him, and pulls Sherlock’s back against his chest. Sherlock smiles into his pillow.

“I like being the little spoon,” he informs John. Part of his brain, undamped by alcohol and exhaustion, is horrified to hear him say that. John, on the other hand, laughs.

“I know,” he says, his warm breath gusting over Sherlock’s neck.

As he drifts into sleep, Sherlock’s last thought it that he really should get a move on with this proposing thing…

*

When Sherlock wakes the next morning, his bed is annoyingly John-free. It takes a moment, but Sherlock’s sleep-slowed brain eventually recalls that John is having brunch with Harry this morning, their latest attempt to repair their fraught relationship. Sherlock doesn’t like it when John sees Harry; he always returns frustrated and tense, with an increased tendency to snap at Sherlock.

The memory of the previous night’s fiasco bubbles to the surface, and Sherlock turns his head into his pillow and groans. Normal, everyday, _boring_ people manage to propose all the time without the slightest trouble; why is it turning out to be so difficult for _him_?

He needs more advice. He leaps out of bed and reaches for his phone, bringing up Lestrade’s number and pressing Call.

The phone rings for long moments before --

“You’ve reached Detective Inspector Lestrade. I’m not able to --”

Sherlock hangs up, frustrated.

Not Lestrade then. Probably just as well. Lestrade’s advice has caused him nothing but trouble so far. He needs someone who’s experienced, who’s been married before, who knows about personal relationships...

Fifteen minutes later, he’s squashed into one of Mrs Hudson’s overstuffed armchairs, being fed biscuits and cooed over by his landlady. He decides that blunt is the way forwards in this situation.

“Mrs Hudson, what would you say is essential to a good proposal of marriage?”

Mrs Hudson titters girlishly, before she gasps.

“Oh Sherlock love, are you going to ask _dear_ John to marry you? How lovely! Of course, I suspected from the moment he moved in that you two would--”

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock interrupts before she can properly get going. “A proposal?”

She stirs her tea thoughtfully.

“My Gerald was quite the romantic, you know,” she muses. “He did so love to surprise me with things, presents, you know, and little trips and things.”

Sherlock nods and waits, but Mrs Hudson’s eyes have taken on a slightly glazed-over look. She is clearly lost in some fond reminiscence. 

“Mrs Hudson,” he says again, and her eyes snap towards him. 

“Oh yes! Proposals. It’s not all that difficult, really, just be yourself, dear, although,” she hesitates, “perhaps not in your case.”

Sherlock makes a noise of frustration, which he quickly smothers. If he gets angry, Mrs Hudson will get flustered and be of no use at all to him.

“I’m afraid I need something a little more specific,” he says as patiently as he can. “How should one go about it? I understand the presentation of a ring is traditional, but I do not think John would be comfortable with such a token. Some statement of affection, too -- I believe it is customary to express a desire to spend the rest of one’s life with your partner? Is there a particular phrase that it would be good to use?”

Mrs Hudson blinks at him, then laughs.

“I’m certain it doesn’t matter at all how you ask him, dear! He loves you very much, it is quite obvious, you could simply take him down to the registry office and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash.”

“But that’s not how it’s _supposed_ to be!” Sherlock exclaims. Why doesn’t she _understand_? John puts up with all manner of things from him, and half the time Sherlock doesn’t even notice. He’s always aware, peripherally, that he’s not the easiest man to be in a relationship with, and that John is rather long-suffering, but Sherlock doesn't often pay it much attention. But now, for once, it’s at the forefront of his mind, and he desperately wants to make some atonement for it. He wants to give John this _one_ nice thing, the sort of thing he would expect from a normal relationship.

Mrs Hudson is watching him with a shrewd look on her face, and Sherlock suddenly feels transparent and extremely uncomfortable. 

“John doesn’t want all those things, Sherlock,” she says, answering his thoughts rather than his words. He stares at her. “He may have at one time, but I don’t think he does now. He just wants _you_.”

But she must see in the set of Sherlock’s jaw and the way his hands twitch at this that he’s unmoved, because she sighs.

“Oh, very well then.”

*

Sherlock muses fretfully on Mrs Hudson’s words as he makes his way back upstairs.

 _Make it romantic, but Sherlock dear, if it’s too romantic, it won’t be_ you _. It will just sound silly._

He frowns. Be romantic but not too romantic. What utterly ridiculous advice.

Indeed, much of what Mrs Hudson had told him had been rather useless. She appeared to be drawing from her own experience, which was fair enough, but given that John was a forty-one-year-old ex-soldier and not a twenty- year-old woman who’d lived at home her whole life, it wasn’t particularly helpful.

He bangs into the kitchen and starts to make tea. Only one thing Mrs Hudson said has really caught his attention, just as he was making his way out the door.

 _Try not to let him suspect you’re going to ask him, love. It would be such a wonderful surprise, especially coming from you._

A _surprise_. How can he possibly surprise John now, after the ridiculous events of last night? There’s no chance John hasn’t worked out to some degree what Sherlock was going to ask him.

Perhaps he _can_ throw John off the scent, though. It shouldn’t be hard to convince John that he does not approve of marriage, or understand the absolute mania society seems to have for it. After all, he’s thought so for nearly his entire life. In fact, his desire to marry John has done nothing to really change his opinions on the concept in general...

He sits down at the kitchen table and starts to plan.

*

Sherlock is still musing on the most effective way to carry out his newly formed plan when John arrives home. He stands abruptly, feeling guilty for no reason at all, and moves forwards to kiss John to cover the slightly awkward moment. John responds with surprising eagerness, and they kiss for a few minutes against the kitchen door, slowly and deeply. 

“Never figured you for the clingy type,” John laughs against his mouth when they break apart. Sherlock frowns and starts to retort, but John simply kisses him again and pushes him away slightly.

“I brought lunch,” he says. “Set the table?” he adds over his shoulder as he disappears down the hallway towards the bathroom.

They don’t often eat lunch together. Sherlock doesn’t eat it at all, generally, and John is either at work, or has had too late a breakfast to be bothered. But it’s clear that John had a difficult morning with Harry, and that he probably didn’t eat anything at all, so Sherlock is more than willing to humour him. He sets the table for two and sits down. His plan has by no means been forgotten -- he hopes the meal may afford him the opportunity for setting it in motion.

They don’t talk much over lunch. John avoids mentioning Harry, and Sherlock doesn’t ask. John actually seems rather low-spirited, and it is as much from a wish to improve them as to forward his own plans that Sherlock makes the effort to engage him in conversation. He tells John about his most recent case, a rather simple one (John has been at work for the entirety of it; it had only taken six hours to solve, disappointingly.) It’s a boring case of infidelity, in the end, and it certainly hasn’t lived up to Sherlock’s hopes when the client had arrived on his doorstep with a tale of missing diamond ring and a mysterious message etched into the glass of her bedroom window.

He tells the story well, though, and John is an increasingly good audience, smiling broadly by the end of it. Sherlock concludes the story with a scathing remark on the couple in question, and John merely chuckles.

“No,” Sherlock continues after a moment, “I don’t understand the institution of marriage at all, not in the modern context.”

John rolls his eyes, but says nothing. It’s clear he’s not surprised by Sherlock’s statement.

“It’s an archaic social construct. I don’t understand why modern society persists in upholding it. No, that’s not quite true. I do understand why, and I can simply also see the folly of the reasoning. Not that I would expect much better,” he adds, entirely honestly. This may be easier than he’s thought.

“Go on, then,” John says, raising another forkful of pasta to his mouth. “I’ll bite. What’s the reason and why do you object to it? What is it about marriage that’s so perplexing to you? Something about the subjugation of women or government records, yes?”

John looks amused, but not particularly interested, as if he already has the entire conversation mapped out in his head.

“No,” Sherlock says, forcing himself to frown, “although those are certainly considerations. No, it’s this embarrassing sentimentality that pervades every facet of popular culture. People love the idea of dramatic statements of undying love and faithfulness. The notion of there being one person for everyone. It’s ridiculous. One would think that a simple glance at divorce statistics would be enough to rid anyone of such stupid ideas.”

John, Sherlock is pleased to see, is paying attention now. 

“It’s not always stupid, or trite, or whatever it is you think,” he says, his forehead creasing. “Certainly the idea of marriage is oversentimentalised, but I’ve always thought there was something...nice about it.” He shrugs. “The idea of committing to one person, for the rest of your life. As long as you properly understand what it means. It’s not something to be done lightly, sure, but...sometimes, if two people simply know that they’re going to be together for the rest of their lives...”

John’s eyes meet his, and Sherlock can see the unspoken question in them.

Isn’t that what we have?

Sherlock knows the answer, knows it in the very core of his being. Yes. But saying so would defeat the exercise.

“How can anyone possibly know that?” he asks instead. “It’s ridiculous to claim that you can know what you’re going to feel for a person in ten years, or twenty, or thirty. People change. Circumstances change. Do you know how many crimes I’ve seen committed by supposed ‘loved ones’?”

It’s a low blow; he knows it. John winces.

“But you don’t think -- surely you don’t believe that all couples are doomed to failure?” 

John’s voice is hesitant. Sherlock shrugs. 

“It is statistically more likely that a relationship will fail than succeed. Long-term commitment is an outmoded idea. Many people would benefit from understanding that fact.”

The look on John’s face is hard to bear; it’s a mixture of confusion and disbelief, with a tiny bit of hurt thrown in. Sherlock looks away.

“So,” John begins, looking steadily at Sherlock until Sherlock turns to meet his gaze, “what are _we_ doing, exactly?”

Everything. Nothing. We’re being, being together, and it’s wonderful.

“Oh, just passing the time,” he says with a shrug.

If Sherlock hadn’t spent hours examining every feature of John’s face, he wouldn’t be able to read the surprise and hurt hidden behind the frozen expression. He wonders if he’s gone too far -- the object of the conversation was simply to convince John of his lack of interest in marriage, not that he lacked affection for him.

“Excuse me,” John says quietly, and he stands, clearing his dishes from the table. “I’m tired from this morning. You know what Harry’s like. Think I’ll lie down for a bit.” 

He finishes cleaning the dishes and leaves the kitchen. Instead of making his way into the bedroom he and Sherlock have been sharing for months, he goes upstairs to his old room. It’s mostly a storage area now, full of books and specimen jars and some of the odd knick-knacks Sherlock has accrued over the years, although the bed remains.

Sherlock hears the door close, and an uneasy feeling flutters in his stomach.

*

John emerges for dinner, however, and if he’s angry or upset, he does an excellent job of hiding it. He cooks dinner and doesn’t make Sherlock eat a bite, and kisses Sherlock after he sits through an entire episode of some television detective show without a single snide remark. John takes himself off to bed soon after, despite Sherlock’s attempts to keep him entwined on the sofa.

Sherlock isn't interested in sleep yet, and he remains stretched out on the sofa, contemplating his plan. John’s response this afternoon was briefly worrying, but the situation seems to have worked out, and without any effort on Sherlock’s part. Still, given John’s reaction to their conversation, it’s probably not a good idea to attempt it again so soon. Possibly at all. There’s also the risk of overplaying his hand: what if John realises what he’s up to?

The entire situation is ridiculous. It shouldn’t be this hard. Sherlock sighs and rolls off the sofa, determined to apply his sizable intellect to a different problem for a few hours.

*

In the end, he forgoes another outright conversation on the topic in favour of a less direct approach. In part, it’s because another opportunity for conversation does not present itself, but mostly Sherlock’s not willing to force the subject for fear of provoking either John’s suspicion or his irritation. 

It’s surprisingly efficient, and Sherlock is kicking himself for not realising it earlier. A derisive snort here, an eye-roll there is all it really takes to establish his position firmly. John doesn’t generally react beyond rolling his own eyes and pointedly refusing to say anything in response. It’s not really different to their disagreements on any other subject -- body parts in the fridge, three meals a day, the appropriation of any item of John’s that takes Sherlock’s fancy.

A week, Sherlock decides the next morning, watching John over the top of his cup of tea. John is still half asleep, flicking through the newspaper without reading a word, stifling a yawn every few minutes. He looks soft and rumpled and Sherlock can’t stand the idea of not having John forever, in every way imaginable. One week today, he’s going to take John to Angelo’s, they’re going to have a nice, normal meal, and he’s just going to bloody well ask John to marry him.

***

Lestrade calls a few days later with a case, and not a moment too soon. It’s been nearly six weeks since Sherlock’s last case, a theft investigation for a (handsomely-paying, John would add) private client, and he is very nearly climbing the walls.

However, what begins as a deliciously puzzling series of thefts from a high-end antique jewellery shop quickly devolves into a simple case of insurance fraud on the part of the shop’s owner, Julia Wright. It’s so disappointing and frustrating Sherlock could scream. He's been desperate for a challenge, something to properly try his abilities, for months. The last few cases have been relatively simple and he can't help feel, in a sullen moment of self-pity that the criminal classes of London seem to be conspiring to keep him bored.

Somewhere, in the locked part of his mind that he keeps hidden from John, he’s always felt a small spark of admiration for Moriarty and his single-minded focus, his complete dedication to his craft, his sheer cold-bloodedness. He wasn’t a good man, not by any stretch, but he was certainly in possession of an excellent, if twisted, mind. Sherlock brought him down, yes, and without a second thought (he’d touched John, the surest way to ensuring Sherlock’s swift and inevitable retribution), but it didn’t mean he couldn’t see the man’s talents for what they had were.

Sherlock scowls at the carpet, resenting his required presence in Lestrade’s office to tie up the loose ends. Thinking about Moriarty always puts him in a dark mood. John nudges his leg.

“All right?” he asks quietly.

They’ve been sitting on Lestrade’s sofa for the last half hour, going over the details of the case, Lestrade trying to sort out some of the paperwork. It has not improved Sherlock’s mood.

Sherlock shrugs. “Disappointing case,” he says shortly. John wrinkles his nose.

“Disappointing? How? Priceless artefacts, daring fraud: I’d have thought it was right up your alley.”

Sherlock sighs and leans back, resting his head against the wall. 

“It was stupid.” he says. Something in his tone must catch Lestrade’s attention, because he glances up from the form he’s filling in before returning his gaze to the paper. John says nothing, but he’s still watching Sherlock, curious. “She was smart about it in the beginning; she did well to cover her tracks; she was organised, efficient. And then she got caught because she made a stupid, emotional decision. Who gives their lover a piece of jewellery they _stole from their own shop_? Idiotic. She must have known we would question her husband, and that the story of her affair would come out. Hell, we even questioned her lover herself. The woman was wearing the bloody bracelet in the interrogation room. She can't have a very high opinion of the Met's competence,” he concludes, glaring at Lestrade, who ignores him completely. 

John stares at him, disbelief colouring his features.

“You’re disappointed because you were able to solve the case? You’re disappointed because you won?”

“No, not that; of course not. I’m disappointed at how _easily_ I won,” Sherlock says. He knows he sounds churlish and petulant, but he doesn’t care. “It’s not fun if there’s no challenge. If Wright had been able to keep her sentimentality in check, it would’ve been a damn sight harder to prove anything.”

“Believe it or not, Sherlock, these people don’t commit crimes for your personal benefit.”

“I’m not suggesting they do, John,” he replies waspishly. “I’m just saying that if people would take five minutes to think, really _think_ , not get caught up in unnecessary emotional responses...”

John looks irritated, which only makes Sherlock more annoyed. John knows he needs the work, he needs the challenge; he’s seen what happens when Sherlock doesn’t get it. Why is he being so obtuse about it? “It’s like what we were talking about the other day,” he says, taking vindictive pleasure in the way John’s eyes narrow. 

“What, exactly?” John replies, a definite edge to his voice. 

“Most of the crimes we investigate are motivated by love, or money, or both. And sometimes, as in this case, it’s also the reason they fail. Do you really think Wright and her husband were suited to be married? She couldn't stand him. It was all part of a scheme to get away from him, for heaven’s sake.”

John looks unconscionably angry for a moment before he sighs and rubs his face. Sherlock suddenly feels guilty.

“I am not having this argument with you again, Sherlock. Especially not here.” 

The words are charged and there’s an awkward pause, before Lestrade clears his throat and asks Sherlock to take him through the details of the case one last time, and then they’ll be free to go. Sherlock reluctantly turns his attention to Lestrade, one eye on John’s tense form next to him.

Before Sherlock can finish, however, John stands and leaves the room without a word. Sherlock stands at once to follow him; John’s expression had been tight and closed and Sherlock is suddenly aware he needs to _fix this_. Lestrade, however, leaps out of his chair and catches him by the arm as he reaches the door.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hisses, tugging Sherlock back into his office. 

“What the hell are _you_ doing?” Sherlock retorts, yanking his arm free.

“Seriously Sherlock, what on earth were you thinking? Saying those things to John about marriage? I thought you _wanted_ him to marry you?”

Sherlock glares at him.

“Actually, technically it’s a --” he begins flippantly, but the look on Lestrade’s face is enough to stop Sherlock from finishing that sentence.

“Look, not that it’s any of your business,” he begins, a little more contritely, although Lestrade still looks murderous. Sherlock ignores his expression and continues, “But there’s a plan at work here, although I admit that last exchange was not intentional. I know what I’m doing, Lestrade, so be a good chap and bugger off.”

“Don’t you go fucking public school on me, Holmes. You’ve involved me in this from the beginning. And I was more than happy to help. I thought, hey, a relationship with John can only be a good thing for him, for all of us. And now that you seem to be trying your best to fuck it up, yeah, I’m interested!”

Lestrade looks far angrier than Sherlock thinks he has any right to be. But when properly roused, he can be quite intimidating, so Sherlock takes the path of least resistance. He sighs and slumps back against the door.

“It’s an idea I had,” he explains, even though he hadn’t quite planned on it making an appearance this afternoon. “The first time I tried to ask him was a total disaster. As well you know,” he adds, shooting Lestrade a venomous look. “He was growing suspicious, I’m sure of it. I talked to Mrs Hudson --” Lestrade smirks slightly at this, clearly amused by the idea of Sherlock asking advice from his landlady -- “and she mentioned how, well, nice it is for a proposal to be a surprise. So now I have to make John think I’m not interested in marriage. It’s not too difficult. I still think it’s a stupid idea in general. And then, when he doesn’t expect it, I’m going to ask him.”

Lestrade blinks.

“That’s actually quite...sweet,” he says. Sherlock would be offended if Lestrade didn’t look so bewildered by the idea. 

“If that’s all?” he says briskly, pushing off the wall and attempting to brush past Lestrade. The inspector, however, is having none of it and catches his arm again.

“I’m not done yet,” he says. “It’s sweet, yes, in a weird and totally irrational kind of way, but it is also the most colossally stupid idea I have ever --”

But Sherlock is done with this conversation. He has no desire to stand here and be insulted by a man of half his intellect (well, three-quarters, perhaps), so he simply turns and leaves, leaving Lestrade calling after him to “not be such a bloody idiot.”

He catches up with John in reception. He’s chatting to the receptionist, all the anger gone from his expression, although he doesn’t look entirely at ease. He looks up when Sherlock approaches and, after a few more minutes of conversation with the receptionist (who’s eyeing him up to a frankly alarming degree), follows Sherlock out of the building. 

John doesn’t mention the conversation, though, and Sherlock can’t bring himself to either.

***


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock is beginning to feel slightly hysterical. 

He’s used to being in control, having his mind ordered and his actions fully in check. But nearly since this... _thing_ has started, he’s been feeling out of his depth and not in charge of the situation at all. He hadn’t meant to snap at John in Lestrade’s office, he hadn’t meant to tell Lestrade anything, but he’d found himself doing both.

Things have been...tense at home. Ever since their almost-fight in Lestrade’s office, John has been quiet, thoughtful. He’s touching Sherlock less, the casual touches that Sherlock only notices now that they’ve stopped. He’s withdrawing from Sherlock, and that is totally unacceptable. Sherlock is going to fix this. 

*

John is reading a journal on the sofa, looking more relaxed than he has for some time. Sherlock flops down on the sofa next to him, landing with his head in John’s lap. John tenses at first, and for a moment Sherlock thinks he might shove him off, but then John shifts to accommodate him, resting his forearm on Sherlock’s shoulder and absently patting his hair. It’s the kind of casual intimacy that the last few days have been missing, and it makes Sherlock ache to think about losing it.

Adaptive as he may be, Sherlock is always loath to entirely abandon a plan. He does it as necessary, usually when something goes wrong on a case, but it always riles him. It’s evidence of his own failure, proof that he missed something important. But this situation with John is getting out of control, and if John is starting to draw away from him...well, that’s not an acceptable outcome. 

John mumbles something under his breath and turns the page, and his short nails scrape across the shell of Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock shivers. They haven’t had sex in six days, which, while not unheard of, is definitely an aberration in their usual habits. Sherlock turns over and presses his face into John’s stomach, breathing in deeply. John jumps at the sudden pressure, then laughs, just a soft half chuckle of affection. He threads his fingers through the hair at the base of Sherlock’s skull, peering at him over the top of his magazine. He appears for the moment to have forgotten that he’s annoyed with Sherlock, and Sherlock is more than willing to take advantage of that. 

He pushes himself up just far enough to kiss John, who drops his magazine on the arm of the sofa and kisses him back, tugging his head closer and parting Sherlock’s lips with his tongue. Sherlock moves up farther until he’s more or less sitting in John’s lap, one arm around his shoulders, kissing him eagerly. God, he’s missed this. He hadn’t even realised it; he’s been too stuck inside his own head for the last week to see it. The taste of John on his tongue, John’s warm, solid weight underneath him, his steady fingers on the back of Sherlock’s neck, scratching lightly where he knows Sherlock is sensitive.

John grumbles something about being crushed, but since he’s doing nothing to push Sherlock away -- in fact he’s holding Sherlock firmly in place -- Sherlock ignores him. Maybe this would be the best way to do it, he thinks. When they’re squashed together on the sofa, when he can just say the words against John’s skin and _make_ John feel how much he means them.

They’re only just getting into it properly, Sherlock’s fingers wandering towards John’s shirt buttons, when John’s phone rings.

“Ignore it,” Sherlock says straight away, deftly unbuttoning John’s top three buttons and sucking a kiss onto his collar bone. He can feel John’s phone vibrating against his right thigh, and the harsh though muffled tone is insistent. 

John groans and removes his lips from Sherlock’s temple.

“Shit, sorry, I should get that,” he says. “It could be work.” He’s breathing more heavily than normal and there’s the beginnings of a flush across his cheeks, and Sherlock just wants to push him down properly and simply kiss him till they both come. He makes a noise of protest at John’s words and continues trailing his lips down John’s chest, flicking his tongue over John’s nipple. John shudders, but he pushes Sherlock gently off his lap, pulling out his phone. 

“Hello?” Pause. “Oh, hi Mike, how are you?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and leans back in to kiss John’s neck. He knows he’s more interesting than Mike Stamford, no competition. John huffs and pushes him away, but his smile is fond, if exasperated, and Sherlock decides not to take offence.

When John says, “Oh, shit, you’re right, I forgot,” and starts to get off the sofa and then waves his hand to hush Sherlock’s noise of protest, he can’t help but be a little annoyed. John moves over to the table and starts repeating an address back to Mike while he scribbles it on a scrap of paper. 

“No worries, I’ll be there in about half an hour,” John says and hangs up. Sherlock frowns. He does not like the sound of that.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, keeping his tone as casual as he can.

“Yeah, a few blokes Mike and I knew back in our Barts days are in London, and Mike organised for us all to have a few drinks tonight. He told me two weeks ago and I completely forgot,” John replies, and he’s not even looking at Sherlock, he’s casting around for his keys as he pats his pockets. 

“In the bedroom, on the chest of drawers.”

“Oh, thanks.” He wanders off in search of them. “You don’t mind, do you? I’m not that bothered, really, but I promised Mike I’d go, and I suppose it will be good to see…”

As John’s voice fades down the hallway, Sherlock tries not to feel resentful. Just because he has no need or desire for any friendship other than John’s, it does not mean John feels the same way. He knows John needs other friends, that he enjoys going out and doing things in which Sherlock has no interest. 

John returns a moment later, keys and wallet in hand, tugging his coat on. 

“Sure you don’t mind?” he asks, finally looking at Sherlock properly.

 _Yes, I do, actually_ , Sherlock thinks churlishly. But there’s really no good way to say that, so instead he waves his arm at the door.

“Go, go, drink your beer, have your normal conversations,” Sherlock says. “I have work to do.” 

“Shouldn’t be home too late, but don’t wait up,” John calls over his shoulder as he leaves, and Sherlock is alone in the flat.

He abandons all pretence that he’s not both jealous and resentful and slumps back down on the sofa. On the one hand, Sherlock feels justifiably annoyed at John for abandoning him right in the middle of their... _activities_. Of course, John is a adult and perfectly entitled to do whatever he wants to, even if that includes abandoning Sherlock for the evening. In truth, he’s not all that surprised John jumped at the chance for some space and a change of company, given the way things have been lately.

Sherlock sighs and presses his face into a cushion. This is madness. The entire thing is sheer, utter madness from beginning to end. Tomorrow, _tomorrow_ he’s going to get up early, make John breakfast and just bloody well ask him to marry him.

He allows himself ten more minutes of wallowing on the sofa before he forces himself up and into the kitchen to finish an experiment.

*

John gets home after one, smelling of beer and other people. Sherlock can tell from the way he stumbled slightly on the way in and the glacial pace at which he made it to the bedroom that John is drunk. John holds his drink well -- it takes more than a night at the pub to get him singing and rolling in the streets, but he’s a definitely few over his normal limit.

“All right?” he asks as John drops onto the bed and begins to fumble with his shoelaces. 

“Mmm,” John grunts. He eventually wrenches his shoes off and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He discards his clothes slowly and deliberately, the task clearly requiring more thought and energy than it usually would. When he’s finally down to his boxers and T-shirt, he slides under the covers and wraps himself around Sherlock’s back. 

“Good evening?” Sherlock asks, managing to keep the bite out of his voice. 

“Good,” John mumbles, “really good.”

Nearly five minutes of silence follow this, and Sherlock’s certain he’s asleep, until --

“Was nice,” he mumbles, as if he hadn’t paused. “Good to talk about stuff.”

John mutters something else into Sherlock’s neck, but it’s indecipherable.

“What ‘stuff’?” Sherlock asks.

No response. John snuffles, once, and is silent, his breathing already deep and even. Sherlock sighs and pulls John’s arm tighter around his waist, and eventually falls asleep. 

*

He shouldn’t be surprised by now. Really, given this entire fiasco, he of all people should have known that the following morning would completely fail to follow the script.

John wakes up hungover and therefore grumpy, and he declines Sherlock’s offer of food with a scowl, choosing to simply hunch over a cup of coffee and respond to all Sherlock’s attempts at conversation with a grunt.

It’s not a promising situation. But Sherlock is desperate now, so ready for the whole thing to be over that he decides to tentatively attempt to introduce the subject and back off if John doesn’t respond well. 

He clears his throat, the sound loud and awkward in the silent kitchen.

“John, I was wondering what you thought about, well, a-about marriage.” Bad opening. Did he just stutter, for heaven’s sake? 

John’s head snaps up and his frown deepens.

“Sherlock, I really do not want to get into this with you this morning.” His voice catches on the ‘you’ in a way that annoys Sherlock and he responds without thinking.

“What’s wrong with talking to _me_ about it? Who else would you talk to about it?”

John rolls his eyes and takes another sip of coffee. 

“God, Sherlock, really? You just...I can’t expect you to understand how someone of such inferior intellect might feel about it,” John says scornfully, and Sherlock is temporarily flummoxed, because _inferior intellect_? He’d never intended to make John feel stupid for disagreeing with him. Is that what John had taken away from the conversation? Sherlock’s just beginning to see how utterly he’s mishandled the situation when the rest of John’s sentence registers, triggering Sherlock’s memory of the night before in bed. A hot flash of entirely unreasonable anger takes over him.

“Oh, I won’t _understand_ , is that the problem? I suppose _Sarah_ understands,” he shoots back, the words spilling out from the corner of his mind that likes to remind him about every single woman John’s been with in the past. He _knows_ the venom in his tone is entirely uncalled for, but he can’t stop himself, even as the calm, logical part of his brain screams at him that he’s making things worse.

“Sarah has nothing to do with this,” John snaps. “This is about you and me and the fact that I can’t have a conversation with you without you calling me an idiot for me opinions.”

Sherlock pauses to take a deep breath and calm down, pinching the bridge of his nose. His responses to John are -- have always been -- embarrassingly emotional, rather than rational, and it appears that the effect has only increased with time. When he speaks again, his tone is level and neutral.

“Well maybe if you’d just have the conversation you’d find that --”

John slams his coffee cup down on the table and winces slightly at the noise, his hand going up to massage his temple. “I wasn’t kidding, Sherlock; I’m not having this discussion with you.” He pushes his chair back and stands up. “I’m going to have a shower and take some aspirin and go back to bed.”

He leaves the kitchen with a thunderous expression and Sherlock watches him go, unable to imagine how that conversation could have gone any worse.

***

Sherlock is at Barts when he gets the phone call.

John, after spending twenty minutes in the shower and deliberately using up all the hot water, went back into their bedroom and, while not exactly slamming the door, closed it in such a way that suggested Sherlock had better not attempt to come in. Sherlock ventured into the room ten minutes later, only to find John already deeply asleep. He was somehow still managing to radiate waves of anger in Sherlock’s direction, so Sherlock closed the door quietly and returned to the kitchen.

He tried to work there for a while, but the atmosphere in the flat still felt charged and suffocating, and Sherlock eventually abandoned it in favour of getting some work done at Barts. The lab was much better equipped than anything he could set up at home, anyway.

The extension attached to the wall rings, and at first, Sherlock ignores it. When it rings for a second, then a third time, he sighs and puts his pipette down.

“Barts,” he says when he picks up the handset, wishing Molly were here to deal with this.

“Sherlock? Finally, I’ve been trying to reach you all morning!” 

“Lestrade? What is it?”

Sherlock hears another voice, far too indistinct, say something to Lestrade, who curses and says something in reply, holding the phone away from his mouth so Sherlock can’t catch the words.

“Lestrade? When you call someone, it’s generally considered polite to --”

But he’s got Lestrade’s attention again, and the man cuts him off.

“Right, Sherlock, shut up and listen to me.”

Sherlock is surprised by the forcefulness of Lestrade’s words, but remains obediently silent. It occurs to him that Lestrade needs his help urgently for a case, in which case it would be best to acquiesce to his request and let him speak. Lestrade’s next words smash that idea to pieces.

“It’s John.”

Sherlock’s mind immediately slips into overdrive, imagining every possible worst-case scenario.

“What is it?” he says sharply. “Is he hurt? Is he --”

“No, no, Christ, Sherlock, nothing like that,” Lestrade interrupts. Sherlock slumps back against the wall for a moment, heavy with relief. But Lestrade’s voice is still strained; clearly _something_ is wrong.

“I’m at your flat,” Lestrade continues. “I came ’round looking for you. You weren’t answering your phone, by the way, why the hell not?”

“No signal in the lab,” Sherlock says, annoyed. “Get on with it. What’s wrong with John?”

“Jesus, Sherlock, what the hell have you done to him?” Lestrade says. “Like I said, was looking for you, ran into John. He looked upset, kind of tense and worried, so I asked him what was wrong.”

“What did he --”

“I’m getting to it, Christ. At first he said nothing; you know what he’s like. But it was dead obvious he was lying, and he knew I could tell it, too. Then he just sort of...snapped. He said he was worried about his relationship with you, that it was clear the two of you weren’t on the same page, that you wanted different things.”

That John, his reticent, stiff-upper-lip John, had confessed as much to Lestrade spoke volumes for just how overwrought he was. 

“I remembered what you’d told me,” Lestrade continued, and Sherlock hears a tinge of guilt creep into his voice. “You know, your mad plan to make him think you don’t want to get married. I still thought it was the stupidest plan imaginable but...it wasn’t really my place to decide, was it?”

“Lestrade, what did you do?” Sherlock demands, trying to quash the panic that’s rising in his throat.

Lestrade hesitates.

“I asked him why he thought that, and he said that you’d been talking all this rubbish about the futility of commitment and that that wasn’t where you saw the two of you heading. And I...well, I told him that you’d always been against marriage, that it was hardly surprising when you see the kind of things you and I see on a regular basis. I asked him if he’d ever really expected commitment from Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock swears, most of it directed at Lestrade personally and in great detail.

“This clusterfuck is _not_ my fault, Sherlock,” Lestrade snaps back. “Don’t you dare try and put it on me.”

“What happened next?”

“He just stared at me for a bit, then he said, really quiet, that I was right. That he’d been kidding himself all along. He looked, well. He looked really, really upset, Sherlock. Then he grabbed his coat and left, said he needed to think and to talk to someone.”

The bottom drops out of Sherlock’s stomach.

“What did he say exactly? His precise words.”

There’s a pause as Lestrade tries to recall.

“He said ‘I can’t deal with this here. I need some air. I need to talk to someone who understands how normal people think.”

Sherlock drops the phone and starts running, unable to stop picturing Sarah’s smile as she’d handed John her number and asked him to call if he ever needed to talk.

*

Of course, it’s rush hour, and It takes him nearly twenty minutes to get a cab.. All the while he dials John’s number frantically. It goes to John’s voice mail again and again, _Hello, you’ve reached John Watson. I can’t take your call right now..._

He swears and shoves his BlackBerry back in his pocket, causing an elderly lady passing by to jump and frown at him. He glares back, and she hurries away. It flashes through his mind that John would probably not approve of him glaring at little old ladies. His chest twists.

When he eventually manages to flag down a cab, he gives the driver Sarah’s address and snaps at him to get him there as quickly as possible. The cabbie merely snorts and says “Yeah, all right mate.” The traffic is thick and slow, but Sherlock’s mind is racing dizzyingly.

John won’t leave him, will he? Not without talking to him first? Not without _telling_ him. That’s not like John at all. And even if he has, if John’s decided he’s had enough, surely Sherlock will be able to explain everything to him? John might not approve. He might be angry, but he’ll forgive him, won’t he? He’s forgiven every wrong Sherlock’s ever done him up until now.

An new image floats through his mind; John arriving at Sarah’s, angry, hurt, uncertain. Sarah inviting him in, making him tea. Sitting on the couch with him, listening to him talk about what a rubbish boyfriend Sherlock is, what a disappointment. 

He closes his eyes and tries to banish the picture. It doesn’t work.

In his mind’s eye, Sarah pulls John into a hug, and he goes easily. She kisses his forehead, his cheek, and says she’s sorry he’s upset, that he deserves better, that he deserves someone who will love him _properly_ , who’ll give him what needs, what he deserves. He sees John sigh and nod and lean in, kissing her lips, his hands in her hair.

His hand curls into a fist and he glares out the window. 

The image won’t leave him, however hard he wills it away.

*

“Sarah?” he shouts, banging his fist on her front door. “John?” No answer.

He pounds it again. What if they’re not here? He’d been certain this was where John was headed. It’s nearly seven o’clock; she must be done with work. Maybe John came here, and then they went out? Surely John would want to be --

The door swings open to reveal Sarah’s glaring face.

“Yes, Sherlock?” she says. Over the course of her and John’s relationship, she and Sherlock had been reasonably cordial to one another, if not exactly friendly. None of that remains now -- she looks cool and unimpressed.

“Where’s John?” he demands. “I need to talk to him.”

He considers shouldering past her and into the flat and simply dragging John out with him, but quickly dismisses the idea. It would only make her, and John, angrier.

“What if John doesn’t want to see you right now?” she asks, anger tingeing her voice now. She steps forwards and pulls the door closed a little more, so he can’t see around her and into her flat.

He opens his mouth to tell her it’s none of her business, that if he wants to see John then he bloody well will. But suddenly, he’s exhausted, all the fight drained out of him. He’s so bloody sick of this mess and has no idea what to do anymore.

“Please?” he says, his voice quiet and entirely unlike his own. It catches Sarah off guard, and she studies his face in surprise. After a moment she steps back into the hall and gestures for him to come inside.

He follows her down the hall into the living room. The television is off and there are two mugs sitting on the coffee table. Sherlock sits down on the sofa, catching a whiff of John’s cologne as he does so, his stomach curling hotly at the familiarity, and he leans forwards and presses his hands to one of the mugs. He’d guess that John left about twenty minutes ago.

Sarah stands next to one of the arm chairs, arms crossed, clearly waiting for him to speak. When he doesn’t, she picks up the slack. 

“You’ve really messed him up, you know,” she says. “He’s a good man. He deserves better.”

Sherlock’s not sure if she’s angry on John’s behalf, or angry that Sherlock has something he so patently doesn’t deserve.

“I suppose you mean you?” Sherlock snaps. Christ, but his temper’s on a short rein these days. Sarah’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t respond. Sherlock continues. “Did you say that to him? That he deserves everything I won’t give him?”

“Yes, basically,” she retorts. “And he should be with someone who’s willing to give it to him. Look, if you don’t want that, it’s fine, it’s not for everyone, but John does and --”

“But I _am_ willing to give him all that,” Sherlock cuts in, the panic and frustration from before welling up again. “I _want_ to,” he adds desperately. “That’s what all this is about! I wanted to make him think that I didn’t, so that when I offered him all those things; marriage, commitment, whatever, he’d be surprised, he’d be _happy_.”

A shocked silence follows his outburst. Sarah stares, face flushed and lips slightly parted, before she leans forwards and drops her face into her hands and groans.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.”

“I know,” he sighs, slumping back against the sofa cushions and closing his eyes.

“So everything he told me, all the stuff he said you said to him about marriage and everything was--”

“-- a deliberate plan to make him think I wasn’t interested in any of it, yes.”

She raises her head and stares at him in disbelief.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock.”

“I _know_.”

There’s a beat of silence, and Sherlock can feel Sarah’s eyes on him, weighing him, judging him. Probably finding him a complete and utter idiot. He doesn’t blame her.

“Where is he?” Sherlock asks eventually. “Please. I need to talk to him.”

“You think?” she snaps, then sighs. “He’s not here. He left about twenty minutes ago.”

“I know,” he retorts. He bites his tongue; for almost the first time since they’ve known each other, he has no desire to deliberately antagonise her. “Where was he going?”

“He was still pretty upset, but a bit calmer than when he arrived, I think. I think he said he was going home.”

Sherlock nods, and stands.

“The two of you --” he begins awkwardly, the words slipping out before he can really help it.

“God, no, nothing happened.” She rolls her eyes. “Do you really think he’d do that, Sherlock? The man is completely in love with you. He’s barely looked at another person since he met you. It just took you a bloody long time to realise it.”

Sherlock nods, once, finally starting to hope that maybe he can save this situation.

*

Thankfully, it doesn’t take him nearly as long to get to Baker Street, and he leaps out of a cab at his front door some fifteen minutes later. His heart is pounding like he really has run all the way from Sarah’s, though, and there’s a knot of worry in his stomach that John won’t be here, that he’s still fucked this up beyond repair.

He hurries indoors and bounds up the stairs, and collides with Lestrade on the landing. 

“Lestrade? What are you doing here? Is John here?” he demands as soon as he realises who he’s crashed into. Lestrade shoves him away gently, untangling them, and fixes his eyes on the ground, clearing his throat.

And suddenly Sherlock’s panicking again, feeling the familiar constriction in his chest and pounding in his head.

“Lestrade?” he says again, tone still demanding, but uncertain.

“I’m sorry,” Lestrade says, glancing up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock steps back, leaning against the wall. It’s suddenly difficult, impossible, to breathe. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, he _was_ here, not long ago. I tried to talk to him, to tell him you weren’t serious about all the things you’d said, that it had all been a misunderstanding, I tried to explain it all to him. But...but he didn’t believe me.”

Sherlock is peripherally aware of Lestrade’s hand on his shoulder, his grip strong and probably meant to be comforting. He can’t really feel it properly over the swirl of emotion. Lestrade is still talking.

“He said he needed some time away from you, to get some perspective on your relationship. He just grabbed some stuff and said he was going to Harry’s and that I should tell you not to call him.”

No, no, this can’t be happening, it _can’t_ , how did this happen, how did he fuck this up this badly? He’s going to find John and make him listen, make him understand, he’s going to go to Harry’s right now and he’s already working out the fastest way to get there, the route flashing in his mind.

“Sherlock?” He looks up to see Lestrade watching him with genuine concern in his eyes. “I -- maybe you should sit down or something.”

No, that’s not right, he can’t sit down. He needs to leave right now. Harry lives nearly forty minutes away, and he needs to get there as soon as possible, before John’s had time to decide that Sherlock was essentially one big mistake and that he never wants to see him again.

He’s vaguely aware of Lestrade taking him by the arm and leading him up the stairs. Sherlock shrugs off his hand at the front door.

“I’m fine, Lestrade. Thank you for your help,” he says, wincing slightly, knowing Lestrade will hear in his voice how utterly not-fine he is.

“Are you really?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock bites his lip and doesn’t look at him which, he supposes, is answer enough. 

He reaches for the door handle and twists, turning over his shoulder to thank Lestrade, hoping he’ll take it for the hint it is and leave, but Lestrade is inexplicable smiling, looking gleeful and content and a hundred other things that don’t fit, and Sherlock’s about to speak, to question it, when he realises Lestrade isn’t looking at him at all but _past_ him and Sherlock turns --

John.

John, standing in the middle of their living room, his arms crossed, looking fond and exasperated and wonderful. He smiles at Sherlock, standing dumbstruck in the doorway, a small, private, disbelieving smile.

“You wanted it to be a surprise.”

*

Sherlock will be embarrassed later about how bewildered he is. It’s obvious, it should be obvious, what’s happened, but it doesn’t stop him turning back to Lestrade in confusion. Lestrade, who grins at him, raises his eyebrows, then winks cheekily and closes the door. The sound of his footsteps retreat down the stairs, and Sherlock stares at John, solid and _here_ and still inexplicably smiling.

John walks towards him, advancing until Sherlock can feel the warmth from John’s body as John takes both of Sherlock’s hands in his. He can smell John’s shampoo and he’s close enough to see the brown flecks around John’s pupils, the little swirls of brown muddying the dark blue. 

John kneels.

Sherlock’s vocal chords are broken, there’s a damaged nerve ending somewhere. There must be, because Sherlock, despite the pounding of his heart and the rush of half-jumbled thoughts, is utterly incapable of speech.

“Sherlock,” John begins, and he’s smiling up at Sherlock, almost laughing, and he looks so _happy_ that Sherlock almost can’t stand it. 

“When I came back from Afghanistan, I hated my life. I hated everything. Waking up every day was a chore, my life was so _boring_ , I couldn’t stand it. Then, almost completely by chance, I met a man, a slightly strange and certainly alarming man, who showed me that it didn’t have to be. This man gave me everything back, and even though he drove me up the wall sometimes, he became the best friend I’ve ever had.”

John falters at this point, his voice catching ever so slightly. He bites his lip, clearly fighting for the right words, and as if John’s paralysis has cured him of his own, Sherlock drops to his knees, and takes John’s face into his hands.

“John,” he says, and after all this time, after trying and failing, and failing horribly, he finds the next words remarkably easy to say. “Will you marry me?”

John laughs, his eyes shining, and leans forwards to press their foreheads together. He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and kisses him once, twice, three times before drawing back and looking him straight in the eye.

“Of course I will, you madman.”

*

“You complete,” John bites his bottom lip and pushes him against the bedroom door, one hand on Sherlock’s waist, the other fumbling for the handle, “fucking,” he twists the handle and they tumble through the door, “ _idiot_.”

Sherlock is having a hard time keeping track of events. He remembers John kissing him thoroughly on the living room floor. He remembers John breaking away and muttering something about his knees. He remembers hauling him up and pulling John tightly against him and kissing him. Things get a little heated and hazy after that. Sherlock vaguely recalls John biting at his collarbone in a thoroughly delightful way, but nothing more concrete, just a wash of pleasure, arousal and _happiness_. Now, somehow, they’re in their bedroom and Sherlock appears to have lost his shirt somewhere along the way, and oh, his trousers are undone, when did that happen? John is _everywhere_ , a whirlwind, sweeping Sherlock up irresistibly. His mouth is currently on Sherlock’s neck, hot and wet, his hands running up over Sherlock’s chest and arms. 

“Is that any way to talk to your fiancé?” Sherlock gasps, feeling he really ought to make an effort, although concentrating is hard when John is mouthing along his jaw and has slipped one hand down the back of his trousers and is pulling their hips together.

“I will talk to you whatever bloody way I choose to after what you put me through these last few weeks,” John retorts. Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but John presses his own against it, immediately pushing his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and licking along his hard palate, his right hand tilting Sherlock’s head to the perfect angle. Sherlock can’t stop the tiny whimper and the way his legs shake a tiny bit under the force of John. John’s hands slip down to push Sherlock’s trousers down, and Sherlock steps out of them and wraps his arms around John’s waist.

John tips them backwards onto the bed, and in an impressive manoeuvre manages to land himself astride Sherlock’s hips, still fully dressed. 

“For the record, I am possibly going to be angry about all of this tomorrow and may have some choice words to say to you on the subject of honesty and openness in a relationship,” John informs him. His words and tone would be more worrying if he weren’t running his hands across Sherlock’s chest like he never wants to stop touching him.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” Sherlock replies.

John only rolls his eyes and leans down to kiss him again, slower and deeper this time, more suited to the slow burn of arousal than the frantic whirlwind it’s been up until now. Sherlock is helpless to do anything but kiss back; the ice-cold fear of losing John still lingers deep in his stomach, and makes him cling to John a little more tightly than usual.

John pulls back after a long moment and stares at him, his palms planted on either side of his head.

“I can’t believe you’re supposed to be the genius in this relationship,” John says, shaking his head. He lifts a hand and drags his thumb slowly across one of Sherlock’s nipples and down his ribs, and Sherlock bites his lip. “I can’t believe you thought it mattered how you asked me...”

Sherlock pushes himself up on his elbows to kiss John again, to steal the words from his lips, to stop John reminding him of how completely useless Sherlock is at these things. John seems to understand, only smiling against his lips when Sherlock fumbles with his shirt buttons.

Between the two of them, they get John’s clothes off eventually, and then it’s perfect, only skin between them, John’s lips soft and demanding and perfect, everywhere on his skin. He flips John onto his back, and John goes willingly. Sherlock kisses down his chest, tugging at John’s legs until they’re over his shoulders. 

John mutters something about pushy, although it turns into a moan when Sherlock licks the head of his cock and closes his mouth around him. He doesn’t hesitate or draw it out. He wants John completely undone, and as quickly as possible. He holds John’s hip steady with one hand as he sucks, his other hand reaching up to pull John’s hands into his hair.

“F-fuck, Sherlock,” John pants, and yes, that’s perfect, that’s exactly how he wants John to sound. Sherlock closes his eyes and gives himself up to the sensations -- the feeling of John’s hands in his hair, the texture of his hipbone under Sherlock’s hand, the taste of him on his tongue -- in a way that he doesn’t often allow himself to. He forgets everything, lets everything else go but the feeling of John here, with him, right now, entirely his.

He’s completely lost, unaware of anything else until John groans and his hands tighten, “Sherlock, if you don’t stop I’m going to --”, and Sherlock flicks his tongue over the head and laps at the slit, his left hand aiding him in pumping John’s cock. He lifts his eyes to John, wanting to watch him as he comes, and finds John staring at him, his mouth open and his breath coming fast, and he looks as completely helpless as Sherlock feels.

John shudders, swears, and comes, his thighs shaking against Sherlock’s shoulders. When he’s finally slumped on the bed, legs spread, Sherlock pulls off and wipes his mouth. He’s managed to ignore his own arousal until now, has been so caught up in _John_ that it barely registered, but now he’s aware of how hard he is, and he’s ready to beg John to touch him.

He doesn’t have to, though; John grabs his shoulders and pulls him up, kissing and licking at his mouth, moaning into it, and he pushes Sherlock over until he’s on his side and wraps his hand around his cock. Sherlock shudders at the first touch, and there’s no way he’s going to last, not when John is kissing him like that. John’s right arm is wrapped around his shoulders, holding Sherlock against him, and his _mouth_ , Sherlock can’t ever remember his mouth being this hot and perfect. 

John strokes him quickly, perfectly, and Sherlock’s hips push into his grip automatically. He reaches up to cup the back of John’s head and hold him still so he can kiss him properly. Suddenly the delicious friction is gone, and John is moving away, but before Sherlock can string enough brainpower together to complain, John’s hand is back, slicked with lubricant, and oh, that’s infinitely better than before.

He doesn’t last long, his orgasm catching him suddenly when John sucks his neck and twists his wrist, and Sherlock breathes John’s name into his mouth as he falls apart.

“All right?” John asks, when they’ve both caught their breath and rearranged themselves on the bed. Somehow they’ve ended up with John lying horizontally at the head of the bed, with Sherlock’s head on his stomach. 

“Mmm,” he mumbles.

“I was hoping that would last a bit longer,” John says.

“Give me five minutes,” Sherlock says, turning his head to squint up at John. From this angle, he can mostly only see John’s jaw. “We’ll have another go.”

John snorts and reaches down to brush Sherlock’s hair off his forehead.

“Seriously, though, Sherlock, I wouldn’t have pegged you for the marrying type.”

There’s a brief tumble of limbs, and Sherlock is astride John’s hips.

“Please, John, can we not talk about it? It’s...well, it wasn’t exactly my finest hour,” he says. God, it’s embarrassing to even think about it.

John simply grins at him.

“Nope, I’m going to enjoy this for a little bit,” he says. Sherlock sighs.

“Oh, fine then,” he grumbles. “No, I’m _not_ the ‘marrying type’, as you put it. I’ve ever really seen the point of it. A lot of what I said is true, it’s an outdated --”

John slaps his hand across Sherlock’s mouth.

“Not really helping your case here, Sherlock.” Sherlock pulls his hand away.

“Shut up, I’m not done,” he says. 

“I would hope not, since you’ve just patently shown yourself to actually be in favour --”

Sherlock cuts him off by unceremoniously digging a finger just below John’s ribs on his left side, where he’s particularly ticklish, and John gives an unmanly shriek and shoves Sherlock off him. An extended tussle follows (and God, Sherlock should have learnt by now not to get into a wrestling match with an ex-soldier), and some even more extended kissing follows that, and it’s thirty minutes before John picks up the conversation again.

“Come on, Sherlock, just tell me. Why is it a big deal to you? You know it’s not to me, right?”

Sherlock stares at him. He’s propped up against the headboard, toying with the edges of his nicotine patch, and John is stretched out beside him, hands behind his head. John wearing his boxers again because he claims he doesn’t like to have serious conversations naked.

“ _What_? Of course it’s a big deal to you; why else were you so upset?!”

“Calm down,” John replies, rolling his eyes. “Marriage itself isn’t a big deal to me, I mean. I don’t need to stand up with you in front of some stranger and get a piece of paper with both our signatures on it to make this relationship mean more to me. It’s just that...”

“What?” Sherlock prompts. John’s looking uncharacteristically embarrassed.

“I needed to know that this is as important to you as it is to me,” he says quietly. “That you’re in it for the long haul, not just until the next interesting thing comes along. You don’t have the greatest attention span, Sherlock.”

“John, I --”

“You don’t need to defend yourself; I’m not accusing you of anything. I guess I’m just wondering...why? Why _do_ you want to marry me?”

Sherlock huffs and slides down the bed, propping himself up on his side so he can look John squarely in the face.

“Because I’m an arse,” he says. John looks at him for a long moment.

“Yep, I get it now, thanks, for clearing that up for me,” he says, nodding sagely. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“No, listen. I’m not good at this. I’m not good at relationships. I will neglect you, I will forget things, I will probably be the worst partner you’ve ever had. No, don’t correct me,” he adds, as John opens his mouth to protest. “We’ve been together long enough for you to know it’s true.”

John shuts his mouth, then grins at him.

“Well, the sex is usually pretty fantastic,” he says, leering at Sherlock.

“Thinking with your cock as always, John, I’m pleased to see,” he retorts drily, before growing serious again. “I simply...I don’t know how to show you that even when I do all those things, it doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Or that I don’t want to be with you. Or that I’m just waiting for something better. Or that --”

“Okay, yes, I get the point.”

“That’s it, really. I want you to know that this is important to me, that our relationship _matters_. I want it to be permanent.”

John is silent for a moment, and Sherlock simply drinks him in; the curve of his jaw, the slight greying of his temples, the way his eyelashes sit against his cheeks.

“So, basically...” John says slowly, “this is a way for you to excuse being a shit boyfriend?”

The response is so wonderfully John that Sherlock laughs, deeply and properly, for what feels like the first time in forever, and suddenly finds himself underneath John, who’s smiling down at him like he’s the most amazing thing John has ever seen.

“Yes, exactly,” he agrees, hooking his legs around the back of John’s.

“Thought so,” John says, leaning down to kiss him. “Seriously, that’s probably the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” he adds when he pulls back. “Was that really what you were thinking  
all along?”

“Well, in the beginning it was mostly so that I could put a ring on your finger and everyone would know you were taken and back the hell off,” Sherlock confesses. John chuckles against his lips and mutters something that sounds like ‘why am I not surprised’. “But now? Yes, that’s what I’m thinking.”

The kissing resumes, a little more heated than before and eventually leads to Sherlock’s promised second round. John falls asleep almost straight afterwards, his left hand resting on Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock feels an unparalleled sense of satisfaction stealing over him. He takes a minute to review the situation. John’s here. John said yes. John’s going to marry him. 

_Marry_ him.

Sherlock suddenly realises that he hasn’t once thought past the proposal. It occurs to him now, with slowly mounting horror, that he’s going to be subjected to the indignity of a _wedding_. 

Dear God.

Mycroft is going to be insufferable.


End file.
